Yet, you were driving your car like there was no tomorrow.

And admittedly, it wasn’t really your heart speaking. Maybe it was that aching feeling between your legs, maybe it was that one thought in your mind that wanted to feel needed and validated. Even if the consequence is waiting for something that never comes—a ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ or an ‘I love you.’

The Texas heat makes your clothes cling to your skin—damp, hot, and soaked in sweat, like you’ve already been swimming. You’re driving with the windows down, letting the wind slap your hair around while the radio hums something low and lazy, something that fits the mood.

You’re stuck in a loop of your thoughts until you hear it:

A cough from your car.

It’s subtle at first—a hiccup in the engine, a stutter in the rhythm. You furrow your brow, tap the gas, and it responds with a groan.

Then it jerks. Stops. Dead. Just like that.

Your eyes widen. “No, no, no,” you mutter, twisting the key in hopes that it works again. The engine wheezes, sputters, then falls silent again.

Trying it once more, it catches—barely—but the sound it makes is ugly, like metal grinding against rocks.

This is exactly what you needed right now.

You huff, slam your palm against the steering wheel, and lean back in your seat, sweat gathering at the base of your neck and forehead.

The sun is merciless. The air inside the car is uncomfortable. You glance around, hoping for a miracle, and that’s when you see it: a faded sign, half-hidden behind a cluster of stubborn weeds.

Miller’s Auto & Repair—400 meters.

You squint. You don’t have much of a choice, really. Lucas is too far to walk to, and you’re not about to call him for help—not when you’re still unsure if he’d even pick up.

So you sigh, start the engine again, and hope it’ll carry you at least 400 more meters before giving up. It starts slow, rough noises spilling out, over and over again. And to your luck, it keeps going.

Keeps going and going until…

You see it.

The place looks half-abandoned, dirty. A dry, sun bleached building with peeling paint and rust creeping up the sides. The sign overhead reads Miller’s Auto & Repair, the letters faded and cracked, like they’ve been baking in the heat for decades.

You finally roll into the lot, the car wheezing like it’s on its last breath.

It was only 400 meters, but under this sun, it felt like an eternity. Your dress sticks to your back, your thighs to the seat, and your patience is long gone.

You find the door—a really heavy metal thing with a hot handle—and push it open. The inside hits you like a wave: the sharp smell of gasoline, the musk of motor oil, and something metallic and burnt, like overheated steel.

You step in, blinking against the dim light, and that’s when you hear it.

A whistle. Low, lazy, and unmistakably directed at you.

“Well look at ya, sugar. What’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ in a place like this?”

When your eyes land on him, you have to swallow. An older man, standing there, cigarette in one hand and in the other holding a wrench—his eyes are on you, lingering up and down, staying far too long under the hem of your dress.

His flannel shirt, dirty, from sweat and grease—just like the worn jeans and boots he was wearing. His hair slicked back, hints of silver shining through.

“Hi,” you breathe out, not realizing until then that you’ve been holding your breath.

His eyes darken, as he takes another look at you. From top to bottom.

He chuckles, “Yes, hello sugar.”

Your cheeks heat up, suddenly feeling intimidated under his gaze. Your eyes land unknowingly on his arms, his biceps then, his crotch. His jeans hangs low on his hips, revealing a sliver of skin and a trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband—and you absolutely hate that your eyes stay there.

“M-my car broke down. It still works kinda, but it’s making lots of noise and it’s very slow.” Your voice comes out smaller than you excepted.

“That so, hm?” His voice low and hoarse, like gravel soaked in whiskey. It slides down your spine leaving goosebumps.

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, cigarette still burning between his fingers. He glances out the open door, squinting at your car.

“I ain’t got time today,” he says, dragging the words out slow. “But for a pretty girl like you… I can rearrange.”

The compliments he makes (if you even can call them compliments) should disgust you, not make you blush like an apple fallen from a tree. And the grin he gives you is anything but friendly; it’s cocky. Flirty.

“I tell ya what, sweetheart,” He takes a drag from his cigarette and exhales slowly. “You can sit in my office, got a nice air conditioner in there and I’ll look at your little car. Alright?”

Lucas wouldn’t be missing you when you come a little late. So, you agree.

When he leads you to his office, his hand dangerously close to the small of your back, you take in his musk—cigarettes, gasoline, and beneath it all, the faint trace of his fragrance. It’s overrun by sweat, but you still notice the calloused hands, the patchy salt and pepper beard, and his height—a full head taller than you. And you wish you could slap yourself right then and there for the warmth spreading inside of your tummy.

His office smells like motor oil and old cigarettes.

Papers are scattered everywhere—invoices, manuals, receipts—some yellowed with age, others stained with grease.

The air conditioner feels like salvation. For the first time today, you can finally breathe, and the sticky sheen clinging to your skin begins to fade.

Joel doesn’t let you stand for long. “A sweet lady like you shouldn’t be on her feet in this heat,” he mutters, already popping open a can of cold Coke and handing it to you.

You sit down on the chair in front of his table, watching him leave with a smirk on his lips.

Sipping on the Coke, fizz sharp against your tongue, you listen to the sounds coming from the garage. Machinery whirling to life, metal clanks against metal, and you hear Joel cursing under his breath just faintly—something about a busted part.

It’s fast. Too fast. You barely have time to cool off before the door creaks open again.

Joel steps in, wiping his hands on a rag, his shirt clinging to his chest. He’s got that same cigarette hanging from his mouth, the smoke curling around his jaw like a halo made of ash.

“Serpentine belt was shot,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel. “Fixed it for ya, sugar.”

His eyes linger on you, longer than necessary, longer than comfortable. And that nickname, ‘sugar’—he says it like it’s second nature, but it curls around your spine in a way that makes you flustered. Maybe more than you’d like to admit.

He was too old. Too old to be calling you pet names and looking at your body like that. God knows what runs through his mind when those darkened eyes land on the hem of your dress, or the low-cut cleavage you had no choice but to push out and let hang low—still clinging to the fantasy that maybe, just maybe, Lucas might take you today.

You stand, placing the coke on the desk, and offer a smile. “Thank you. Really. You kinda saved my ass.”

He lets out a slow, low chuckle, then flicks the cigarette to the ground without a second thought.

“I sure did, hon. But it ain’t gonna be cheap. Had to replace the whole belt. Those things don’t come easy.”

Of course.

That was something that somehow went completely over your head. And you’d be lying if your heart didn’t sink into your gut at his description of the repair being expensive.

You bit your lip, gawning at the flesh inside of your mouth, when you peep out: “and how much?”

He walks over to his seat, rough boots loud as he steps, groaning when he sinks into his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray before lighting another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the lines on his face.

“250$. But for you, I’ll make 200$.”

Eyes widened, you look at him take another puff of his cigarette, with the other hand running his hand through his hair. The realisation that you only have 50$ dollars with you settles in your bones.

“Can I maybe pay it off later?” you ask, voice soft. “I promise.”

He chuckles, that cute voice of yours already making his brief tighten. “That ain’t how that works, sugar.” Continues after exhaling smoke. “You come in here, think lookin’ pretty’s enough to get a free fix?”

Your heart starts to race. You glance at the door, then back at him. “I just… I don’t have much money with me. Please, just let me pay you another day.”

He leans back, eyes narrowing. “If I let that happen, I’d have to let it happen with everyone.”

And of course, he was being cruel, just that way men sometimes are when they know they’ve got the upper hand. Sure, he let others pay later, scribble out a check and drive off. But not you. Not the sweet girl with that skimpy dress and the nervous smile.

No—he wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily.

You slump into the chair, defeated. The room feels smaller now, hotter. Joel’s gaze drifts — from your face to your shirt, lingering a little too long before trailing downward. You feel it. The weight of it. The way it makes your skin prickle.

“How about another way you can pay me, sugar?” he says, voice thick with suggestion.

Your eyes meet his, and something flickers in your chest—nerves, maybe. Or something darker. You nod, faintly, unsure if it’s fear or curiosity guiding you.

“S’just a tiny bit dirty,” he adds, eyes dropping to his crotch, then back to yours, “But ain’t nothin’ you’re not used to already, I’m sure.”

You freeze. Just for a second. You want to scoff, to roll your eyes, to say something biting. But nothing comes out.

Instead, your gaze flickers—to his face, to the cigarette on his hand, to the door that suddenly feels way too far away. Your skin begins to prickle, not from the heat this time, but from something colder. Shame, maybe. Or the fact that part of you isn’t recoiling. You hate that. Hate the way your body responds before your mind can shut it down. Hate the spreading of warmth in your belly, the pulse in your throat, the way your breath catches just slightly.

“That’s—that’s inappropriate,” you stammer out, not having many words left to answer him.

“Is it more appropriate if I call the cops on ya ass?” His eyebrows furrow together.

Your heart sinks. You stare at him, unsure what to say. The room is quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the soft fizz of the Coke can.

“C’mon, sugar,” he says, eyes landing on yours then flicking back to his crotch.

The door’s right behind you. You could say no. You could walk out, call your dad, tell him to come get you from the creepy mechanic who trades dirty favors for payment.

But you don’t.

Warmth rushes through your body, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you stand—his eyes following you—and take the first steps toward his desk. A familiar, cocky grin forms in his face, and yours stay frozen on the big bulge forming in his crotch.

“S’what I thought,” he murmurs, leaning back against his chair, making room for you under his desk.

You kneel, skin touching the cold floor.

“Look at you, folding at the thought of getting dick into that mouth.”

And you can’t help but feel turned on by his words. They should disgust you, especially when he says them in a degrading tone.

Your hands move without you even noticing, resting on top of his thighs, feeling the rough jeans beneath your fingertips. While your eyes are fixated on his bulge, you murmur:

“Can I?”

A low grumbling chuckle comes from above. “And a polite one are you too.”

Your gaze watches as his rough fingers opens his zipper, quickly moving and pulling out his hardened cock. The sight makes you want to roll your eyes to the back of your mind. He is thick, pulsing and aching from top to bottom while his big swollen head is leaking pre cum from his slit.

He grips himself from the base, tugging on him for a few times before swiping his wet tip with a thumb, bringing it to your mouth.

You open instantly and close your lips around his finger, sucking on it softly, while your eyes look up, landing on his—face all hazy, watching you like he is mesmerised.

“Y’ready for the real thing?” He murmurs, pulling his thumb out of your mouth, “Now open wide, sweetheart.”

You do. Obeying him like your life depends on it. Your mouth opens slack, your tongue out as you wait for his tip to push in. The first feeling is wet—his pre cum mixed with your saliva making it easy for him to slide into your mouth. You close your lips around him, looking up with big eyes—his breathing ragged while looking down on you through hooded eyes.

“Thaaas’it, sugar.” He praises, as you replace his hands with yours, wrapping around his length and taking him in further.

Your head slowly bobs up and down, your tongue swirls around his tip as you hear groans and moans on top of you. The rest of his cock is being pumped by your hand, while your mouth starts to memorise every vein and every throb his dick has to offer.

Joel’s hips start slowly bucking, and you notice his tummy going up and down, happy trail glistening in the light while doing so.

“So fuckin’ warm and tight,” Your hair is suddenly pulled back by his hands, gathered in a ponytail, to keep the strands from disturbing you while you work. “Bet that cunt feels equally warm and tight, doesn’t it sweetheart?”

His words spread warmth in your tummy, your panties start to get wet—feeling throbbing inside of your cunt. Without noticing you start grinding against the air, small little bucks coming from your hips, while your mouth concentrated on his cock.

“Yeah, there she goes. Talkin’ bout being inappropriate, now she is humpin’ the air like a bitch in heat.”

With a lazy shift, his boot finds its place between your thighs—first just touching your thigh but pushing against your underwear. You don’t realise—maybe you don’t think before starting to grind yourself on the tip of his boot, the worn leather nudging at your clit over and over again.

His cock leaves your mouth only to moan. Joel moves his boot just right to meet you over your panties, rubbing from top to bottom.

“She wet already?” He asks, pressing down harder. “Only from sucking cock?”

You look up to him, eyes glassy as you nod, wanting him to continue his work on your pussy.

Joel is watching you, his hand wrapped around his cock, hooded eyes and a smug smirk—moving the tip of his boot tightly against your wet, throbbing cunt. The fabric feels soaked, the pleasure is unbearable and you wonder how a shoe is getting you off more than Lucas ever did.

Your hips rock in a quick rhythm as your hands grip into his thighs, completely forgetting about his cock, silently hoping that he will still make you take him after you’re done.

“Oh, she’s enjoying herself” he grumbles under his breath, hand tight against his cock. “Keep going, sugar. You’re almost there.”

Muscles tightening, legs shaking as your clit meets the tip of his shoe just one more time and you’re coming without a warning. Your body lunches forward, gripping on his thighs, your tights closing around his foot. Silent whimpers and cries leave your chest and underneath all that bliss you can feel his calloused hand rubbing up and down your back.

When you calm down and you look up again, you see his face first—hazy, breathing hard and looking at you with a lazy smirk. Then, looking further down you realise, he came. All over his hand that is still wrapped around him and his crotch, even a little bit on your hair.

Joel lazily milks the rest of his cum, hand still soothing on your body, now moved to your cheek, just stroking.

“I’m gonna let that slide, made me cum nonetheless,” he says nodding to you. “Even cleaned the tip of my boot with your wet cunt.”

His fingertips slide further down, catching your lip and squeezing. Eyes just focused on your fucked out face. Flushed cheeks, glassy eyes and swollen lips. God knows, what he would do with you if he could. But works waiting.

“C’mon, sugar. Off ya go.”

You stand up slowly, holding into his frame for support, realising that your dress slightly slid down, revealing just one of your tits. And instead of sliding it up and feeling embarrassed, you look at him, breast handing in front of his face.

He doesn’t say anything, he just looks into your eyes before nearing his mouth against your tit and taking your nipple into his mouth. He suckles on it for a moment, keeping eye contact with you, before slapping it slightly with his rough hand.

“Fuckin’ work is callin’,” he groans, standing up, packing his cock back to his trousers and sliding your dress back up to your shoulder. “Oh, what would I do to ya, sugar. Take you just the way this cunt deserves,” your breath hitches when his hand cups your pussy over your dress suddenly. “Fuck you just the way my cock likes.”

He lets go and before he heads to the door, he pauses. Reaches across the desk, fingers brushing past scattered tools and ash to pluck a card—worn at the edges, slick with grease. He holds it out to you, eyes locked, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You take it, fingertips grazing his. Your eyes flick down, then back up. “Joel?”

He nods, slow. Like he’s confirming something you already knew.

You hesitate, then offer your name—soft, almost shy.

That’s when he chuckles. Low. Rough. The kind of sound that makes your stomach flip. “Introducin’ yourself after you had my cock in your mouth?”

Your breath catches, but a smile slips out before you can stop it. It’s small. Crooked. Embarrassed. But it’s there.

He sees it. Of course he does. And he leans in just enough to make the air feel heavier. “You can call me anytime, sugar.”

He starts walking towards the door holding it open for you. You walk over with wobbly legs and a wet cunt.

“Thank you.” You whisper, throat dry.

“Anytime, sugar.”

—

You slide into the driver’s seat, the door clicking shut besides you. The engine hums to life without protesting this time, and for a moment, you just sit there.

Your breath is uneven. Not fast just… off. Like your body’s still catching up to the heat that bloomed inside you minutes ago, on the mind blowing orgasm you just had on his shoe. Your skin is hot, there are goosebumps all over your it—just from the way his voice curled around each word. From the way he didn’t hesitate. From the way you didn’t either.

You feel like you’ve done something forbidden. Something you weren’t supposed to want. But you did. God, you did. And that’s the part that makes your stomach twist—not the act itself, but how much you liked it. How much you still feel it.

The ache between your legs is sharp, insistent, like a whisper you can’t ignore. You shift in your seat, trying to shake it off, but it lingers.

You could go back in there. You could ask him to fix it properly. You know he would.

But Lucas is waiting.

You put the car in drive and pull away from the garage, the tires crunching softly against gravel.

The evening slowly wraps around you, quiet and thick, the radio hums low and your thoughts never stop.

Should you tell Lucas? Should you pretend nothing happened? Should you go back to Joel and let him finish what he started? Your mind is a mess, tangled in guilt and desire and something that feels dangerously close to freedom.

And when you finally pull up in front of Lucas’s house just as the last light drains from the sky, you take a big breath. The Texas heat has finally loosened its grip, replaced by a breeze that brushes against your skin and makes you shiver.

You sit in the car for a moment, engine humming, heart thudding.

Your thoughts are a mess—Joel’s voice still echoing somewhere in the back of your mind, the ache between your legs still not quite gone.

But this isn’t about him. Not now.

You climb out of your car and walk up to his door slowly, each footstep louder than it should be.

You knock, soft at first, then again.

The door opens.

And there he is.

Lucas. Joggers hanging low on his hips, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed, freckles scattered across his nose like they were placed there by someone careless. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say hello. Just looks at you like you’re a stranger who showed up uninvited.

You try to keep your voice steady. “Hi. How are you doin’?”

He doesn’t answer. Just scoffs—a short, sharp sound that cuts through the quiet. Then he gestures, finger flicking between you and himself.

“We need to stop doing this.”

You blink. Your heart stutters. “What do you mean?”

“I’m with someone else, now.” He says, voice calm.

“What?”

He shrugs, casual. Like he’s telling you he forgot to take out the trash. “Yeah. I met someone at work. Just clicked between us two.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly open, trying to make sense of the words. He keeps going, like it’s nothing. Like you’re nothing.

“And I know we had this thing going on, but I want to end it.”

Your breath catches. Your chest tightens. You feel your face drop, the warmth draining from your skin. Sadness floods in fast, but it’s not alon —anger rides in with it, hot and bitter. You stare at him, your expression twisted into something raw, something broken. You want to scream. You want to ask him why. You want to ask him if any of it meant anything.

But you don’t.

You just stand there, blinking, trying to hold yourself together while he looks at you like he already moved on.

“So… bye,” he says, voice flat. And then he closes the door.

Just like that.

You stand there, staring at the door, the porch light buzzing above you. The wind picks up, brushing your hair into your face, but you don’t move.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. Your cheeks are wet before you realize you’re crying. The tears come slow, then faster, until you’re hiccuping quietly, mascara bleeding down your skin like bruises.

You can’t say you didn’t see it coming. Lucas never said he loved you. Never said anything, really. Just showed up, touched you, left.

But still—you thought maybe. Maybe there was something. Maybe he cared in his own quiet way.

And now you wonder if you deserved this. If you brought it on yourself. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t anything official. But you still let someone else touch you. You still sucked on someone else’s cock.

You let out a sob, sharp and sudden, and turn away from the door. You walk back to your car, each step heavier than the last. You slide into the seat, shut the door, and start the engine.

That’s when it hits you.

The sobs come hard now, shaking your shoulders, blurring your vision. You grip the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping you together. You cry for him. For Lucas. For yourself. For the way no one ever seems to choose you. For the way you keep giving and giving and end up empty every time.

Maybe you weren’t enough. Maybe you were never enough. Maybe you were too quiet, too needy, too messy. Maybe if you’d been prettier. Smarter. More mysterious. Maybe if you hadn’t let him see how much you cared. Maybe if you hadn’t let someone else touch you.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, nails digging into the leather. You feel stupid. Used. Like you gave away something sacred and got nothing in return. Like you were just a placeholder until someone better came along.

-

The time slowly passes as you drive with your window down, dry skin, streaked with salt from tears that stopped flowing miles ago. Your muscles are stiff, your eyes swollen, but you don’t feel anything anymore. Not sadness.

Not anger. Just empty. Numb.

You stare forward, not at the road but through it, like you’re driving into nothing. Thoughts are scattered, but they all circle the same drain—Lucas’s voice, his shrug, the way he said “I met someone else” like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. You replay it over and over, trying to find a crack in it, trying to make it make sense. But it doesn’t. It just hurts. And you’re too tired to fight it.

Then the car coughs. Once again.

A sputter. A stutter. A sound you’ve heard before—just today. The engine slows, hiccups, spits.

You press your foot to the gas, but it resists, groaning like it’s dying. You pull over, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and throw it into park.

Your head drops to the wheel with a dull thud.

“Not again,” you whisper, voice hoarse, barely there.

You sit there for a moment, forehead pressed against the leather, breathing shallow. The silence wraps around you, thick and unforgiving. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You just sit. Because what’s the point?

Then your eyes drift down.

There it is. The card.

Joel’s card. You forgot it was there. You forgot he gave it to you—that moment in the doorway, his fingers brushing yours, that smirk like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You can call me anytime, sugar.”

The words echo in your head, low and lazy, wrapped in smoke and heat. You remember the way he looked at you. The way he touched you. The way he made you feel wanted—not sweetly, not gently, but fully. Like you were something to be devoured.

Your heart thuds once, hard. Your head pounds from all the crying, all the anger, all the confusion. You sit up slowly, fingers brushing the card like it might burn you. You stare at it. Then you start the car again.

It groans, but it obeys.

You pull back onto the road, headlights slicing through the dark, and you drive.

Towards Joel’s repair shop.

You climb out of the car, the wind tugging at your clothes, brushing hair across your face. You feel hollow. Like someone scraped you out and left the shell behind. You walk up to the door, heart thudding, and knock.

For a moment, nothing.

Then the door creaks open.

Joel stands there, framed by the dim light inside. He looks the same—flannel sleeves rolled up, jeans worn and stained, boots heavy on the concrete. But there’s something different in his face. Something tired. His eyes flick over you, and the smirk comes slow, lazy.

“Now who do we have here,” he drawls, voice low and teasing. “Can’t remember that I ordered my dinner.”

You want to laugh. You want to roll your eyes, toss back something sharp. But you can’t. The sadness is still sitting heavy in your chest, thick in your throat. You just look at him, eyes wide, lips barely moving.

“Hey,” you say, voice small.

Joel’s smirk fades. His brows knit together, and before you can react, his hand lifts—rough fingers pinch your chin, tilting your face towards him. His eyes scan you, slow and deliberate, taking in the smeared makeup, the red-rimmed eyes, the way your mouth trembles.

“The hell happened to ya?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not teasing. Not cocky. Suddenly concerned.

You scoff, brushing his hand away. But it’s not anger. You just can’t be touched right now. Not gently. Not like that.

Joel steps back, understanding. His posture shifts, the swagger draining from his shoulders. He glances past you, looking at your car parked crooked in the lot.

“S’your car again?”

You nod, arms crossed tight over your chest. “Makes the same noise as earlier today. Also feels slow. Like it’s choking.”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flick back to your face, lingering on the dried streaks, the way you won’t meet his gaze.

“We’re actually closed,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “But I can take a look at it.”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to speak. Joel watches you for a beat longer, then gestures towards the inside.

“Why don’t ya come in. Sit at my office again, yeah?”

You step past him, the warmth of the garage brushing against your skin. You don’t look at him. You don’t say thank you. You just walk— slow, heavy—to the office door. You open it, slip inside, and sit down in the same chair you did earlier.

It feels different now.

The room still smells like oil and smoke. You sink into the chair, arms still wrapped around yourself, eyes fixed on the floor. You hear Joel moving outside, the soft clink of tools, the low murmur of him talking to himself.

You don’t cry.

Even if you want to. The silence makes it hard, your head feels heavy.

Joel steps into the office, the door creaking behind him as he wipes his hands on a rag, the scent of oil and metal trailing in with him. His eyes land on you instantly—slouched in the chair, arms tight around you, eyes glassy and distant. You don’t look up right away. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of his gaze settle on you like a coat you didn’t ask for but might need.

“Fixed it again for ya, sugar,” he says, voice low and rough. “Tensioner was loose—belt couldn’t hold. Lucky it didn’t snap on you.”

You lift your head slowly, eyes meeting his. There’s no smile. Just a nod. Your heart aches in your chest, heavy and swollen, like it’s holding back something that wants to spill. Joel sees it—something’s wrong. But maybe he doesn’t know how to ask. Maybe the invisible line between mechanic and customer holds him back. Maybe it’s the age gap. Maybe it’s something else.

“The cost?” you ask, voice quiet, almost hopeful. You don’t know why you want him to say a number you can’t afford.

Joel leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you.

“150 bucks,” he says. Then, with a crooked smile: “I’m assuming you didn’t go and get money since last time.”

You don’t answer. You just stand slowly, legs shaky, and begin to lower yourself to your knees. It’s not graceful. It’s not seductive. It’s desperate. But before you reach the floor, Joel’s hands are on your arms, pulling you back up.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, voice firm but not unkind. He steadies you, hands lingering at your elbows.

“S’on the house this time.”

You blink, confused. Embarrassed. Your heart thuds painfully, thinking maybe he doesn’t want it. Maybe he doesn’t want you. You look away, shame crawling up your spine.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “You ain’t—sugar, you ain’t in the best shape. Not gonna accept something from you when you’re like…” He trails off, unsure how to finish.

Your forehead drops against his chest, pressing into the fabric of his shirt. You move side to side, a quiet whine escaping your throat.

“But I wanna,” you mumble, voice muffled against him. You’re not sure what you want. Maybe for him to make that empty feeling go away.

Joel’s breath catches. His hands hover at your sides, unsure. He’s holding himself back—you can feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers twitch but don’t grip. He could take you. He wants to. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

So you lean in—slow—and press a kiss to his mouth. Just a peck. Then another. And another.

He exhales through his nose, like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His hand comes up, rough palm cupping your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. And then he kisses you back—deeper. His lips part against yours, warm and steady, and you melt into it like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this exact moment.

Your mind goes foggy. Almost numb—just full. Full of him. Full of heat and ache and the need to be closer. So you move without thinking, arms wrapping around his neck as you jump into him, legs curling around his waist. He catches you instantly, hands gripping to your thighs, holding you like you weigh nothing.

He walks you backward, lips still locked with yours, and gently sets you down on the desk. The wood is cool beneath you, but his body is warm, grounding. You don’t stop kissing. You can’t. It’s messy now—breathless, hungry, like you’re trying to climb inside his skin.

Then Joel pulls back, just a little. His lips trail down your jaw, soft and slow. He plants a kiss beneath your ear, then down your neck, then lower—to your shoulder, your collarbone, the top of your chest. Each kiss is deliberate, reverent, like he’s memorizing you with his mouth.

You start to squirm.

It’s not discomfort. It’s something else, something tangled. Your body wants more, while your mind is drifting, slipping somewhere distant. It feels foggy, and he is the only person who is your anchor. Joel feels it instantly. He pauses, hand still on your thigh, lips hovering just above your skin.

He looks up at you, brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read a language he doesn’t speak.

“Don’t go easy on me. Please.” A whine escapes your throat, tears already starting to bubble inside of your eyes. “Not gentle. I need to feel it.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. His eyes search yours, not for lust—for permission. For clarity. For something that tells him this is what you need, not just what you think you deserve.

Slow and deliberate, he makes you hop off the desk and turns you around with a firm hand on your waist. You don’t resist. You let him guide you, let him bend you gently over the edge of his desk.

The wood is cold against your forearms, grounding. Your breath catches, your heart beating faster.

Then you feel it—the hem of your dress lifting, fabric sliding up, exposing skin that feels too bare, too vulnerable. You brace yourself, fingers curling against the desk.

The first spank lands with a sharp crack, your mouth falls open with a gasp.

Your skin prickles instantly, nerves lighting up like static. Your breath hitches, eyes squeezing shut. But the fog—the numbness that’s been clinging to you like a second skin finally starts to clear. Just for a second. Just enough to remind you that you’re here.

Joel pauses, his hand gently kneading the flesh.

“Like this?” he asks, voice low, rough. “Y’want more, sugar?”

You nod, too fast, too desperate. “Please. More.”

He gives you the second spank—firmer this time. Your body jolts, but you don’t flinch. You lean into it. You want it. You need it.

By the third, you’re already crying.

The tears come fast, hot, and silent at first. Then they bubble out, thick and broken.

“He didn’t want me,” you sob, voice cracking open like a wound.

Joel freezes. His hand stills. He leans over you, hand rubbing slow circles up and down your back, grounding you, holding you together.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” you whisper, the words spilling out like they’ve been waiting for someone to catch them.

Joel’s voice is quiet, but steady. “Can’t even imagine someone who wouldn’t want ya, sugar.” He tries to sound cocky, tries to lighten the weight in the room, but his voice falters just enough to show he means it.

You glance back at him, eyes glassy, lips trembling. A small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, feeling understood.

“He—he made all sorts of promises,” you say, voice thin and shaking.

Joel nods, listening. Then, without warning, he gives you the fourth spank, but it’s not cruel, just a reminder. A reminder that you’re here.

“And then he just went with someone else,” you sigh, hiccuping through the words.

Joel’s hand kneads your skin gently, rubbing your ass cheek in gentle circles—soothing the sting, grounding the ache.

“Fuckin’ douchebag,” he mutters, voice thick with disdain. “He ain’t even deserving of these tears.“ His fingers trail softly over your skin, calming you softly. “Of all of you. Can’t handle a sweet thing like you…that’s what ya call a pussy.”

A giggle slips from your lips and it’s unexpected, for Joel and you. It feels that finally you can breathe, and feel safe.

Joel bends over you, his chest warm against your back, and plants a soft kiss on your cheek.

Then comes the fifth and final spank.

It’s the hardest. Not brutal—just final. Like a door closing. Like a breath held too long finally released.

You crumble.

Your knees buckle slightly, your head drops to the cold desk, and you let out a deep, shuddering breath, it stings and it hurts. But it feels good. It feels like a release.

Joel doesn’t move. He stays close, one hand on your back, the other resting gently on your hip.

And you wonder how you’re feeling more understood and comfortable with a stranger than the boy you used to love.

As your hiccups gently vanish, and the silence falls back into the room, Joel moves his body just slightly so you feel his bulge, nudging against your underwear.

Breath hitching you turn to him, the wood beneath you soaked with tears as his lips turn into a smirk, giving you a tiny peck on your lip.

“You feel that, sugar? That’s what it means to be wanted.”

A whimper leaves your lips as Joel grinds his bulge against you, the rough fabric of his denim just perfectly meeting the center of your cunt.

His hands slide under your arms, pulling you upright from the desk where you collapsed, breathless. You barely register the movement before he turns you, guiding you gently until your hip hits the edge of the table. His arms bracket you in, one on the desk, the other wrapped around your waist, holding you steady.

“Lookin’ so fuckin’ pretty when you cry, baby.” He cups your cheek, thumb swiping away the tears. “You just need someone to properly ruin you, yea?”

Dazed, and desperate. Throbbing and aching. In need of something, you nod your head quickly, nuzzling against his touch.

“Then c’mon. Up on my desk.” He demands, his head nodding towards his table.

You do as he says, jumping on his desk, the things that fall on the floor are long forgotten.

Joel’s gaze pins you in place—heavy, deliberate, and laced with a promise. Not soft. Not sweet. Just the quiet certainty of a man who knows exactly how he’s going to break you open and make you beg for more.

“There ya go, sugar. Now open them legs. Let me see what i’m workin’ with.”

You spread your legs wide, feet planted besides your hips, revealing the soft cotton panties, soaked in your wetness—just waiting to be touched. And without him saying something, you even hook your thumbs beneath the waistband, and slide the fabric down your hips slow, deliberate, like you want him to feel every second of it. You lift one leg, then the other, panties slipping off and landing softly besides you on the desk. Joel doesn’t blink—just watches, jaw tight, breathing shallow, like you’ve just undone something inside him.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs after a silent moment. He comes closer to your pussy, bending over a little bit to analyse. “Prettiest thing. Weepin’ and creamin’ without any stimulation.”

“S’a shame,” As he comes closer, so much so that you feel his breath against your clit. “Let’s change that, yea?”

A long, wet, lick from your dripping hole to your clit. You gasp into the room, breath hitching as you watch Joel bend over even more and put his hands on you. His thumbs grazing on your pussy lips, opening you up like a flower.

A low whistle leaves his lips.

“Poor thing, all twitchy. Gonna bury my face into this sweet mess, make you forget any men that made you feel unwanted.”

His lips wrap around your clit, sucking on the button like his life depends on it.

You start to moan into the quiet room, praying that Joel doesn’t have any workers still in the building. Two fingers start to fill you, burying to the brim and curling inwards, rubbing that sensitive, sweet spot in you.

“Sweet as sugar.” He releases your clit with a plop. “And so fuckin’ tight, squeezing me like a god damn vice.”

His mouth starts lapping on you again. This time, removing his fingers from your cunt and opening your pussy lips with his thumbs. His tongue explores your hole, goes back to your clit, whirls around and sucks a few times before thrusting his tongue back into your hole.

A cry leaves you at his movements, already feeling your tummy tightening and legs shaking.

And of course, he notices.

“You cummin’ angel?” he asks, slipping his two fingers into you again. “Oh, she is. Look at ya creaming around my fingers.”

His words make you snap already, and you moan into the room, your body falling back on top of the desk, as you buck your hips against his fingers. He strokes your insides with deliberate precision, riding out your orgasm to the fullest, while watching your cunt spasm and twitch with your release.

“Pussy deserved it.” He murmurs, slipping his fingers out of your sensitive hole and gently caressing your thighs.

You lay there, breathing heavily as you look up to the ceiling, already feeling dazed again.

Joel draws lazy circles around your mound, going back and forth before slipping under your dress and landing on your breasts.

“Need to give these girls attention too.” While pinching your nipples and squeezing the flesh with his calloused hands. A few whimpers leave your lips before—you feel it.

The tip of his cock nudging at your entrance, lazily drawing circles around.

“He missed you, sugar. Gonna let me fuck you full?” He asks, pinching your nipple one last time before his hands land on your hips. You sit up slightly, eyes landing on his hard cock. Just as you remember.

Red, swollen and dripping with pre-cum.

“Think your hole clenching down is already an answer,” He chuckles, his hand jerking him up and down before lowering himself to your hole and starting to fill you.

“Ungh—Joel.” And it’s a big stretch. A way bigger stretch than his fingers and even more so from all other men you had.

He coos, thumb landing on your clit as you spread your legs wider for him. His tip pushes into you with a sting, a sting that rather feels good than it hurts.

“I’m inside ya now,” He whispers before slowly feeding you the last inches of his cock. “Ain’t no goin’ back.”

“Joel.” You whimper, lying back down on the desk and feeling full.

“That’s it. Taking me so well, sugar.” And with that, he thrusts once. A cry leaves your lips, begging for more. So he just does that, giving you small shallow thrusts, while focusing on your fucked out face. Mouth hang open and eyes squeezed together.

His hands explore your tummy, rubbing circles and every now and then slipping under your dress to pinch your nipples. A groan leaves his mouth, breathing heavy into the room as his hips start to take pace, going in and out of you in a faster way.

“I’m gonna ruin this pussy for anyone else,” he mutters, grabbing both of your wrists, bunches them together, and yanks them against his stomach holding you there, tight, like he’s using your own body to pull himself deeper.

You gasp, the angle sharper now, the stretch unbearable in the best way. His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens. “You feel that stretch?” He asks and you can’t do anything else but mindlessly nod.

“That’s me settlin’ in. Deep. So deep that you’ll be feelin’ me for days.”

His thrusts grow quicker and deeper, your body moves up and down while your tits spill from your dress now bouncing with his hits. He grunts, one hand coming at your clit and rubbing in quick circles.

“Joel—please. I think i’m gonna cum,” you whine out, shaking your head to left to right in frustration.

He chuckles. “Course ya gonna’, sweetheart,” his hand leaving your clit only to pinch your nipple between his fingers. “Sweet pussy is gushing around my cock, baby.”

And that does it. Unexpectedly.

Your body locks in as a big cry leaves your mouth, back arching off the table, eyes squeezed shut while you ride through your orgasm. Joel’s thrusts don’t stop, he supports it with circling and pinching your clit while going in, and out of you deeply.

You try to move your hands, but he won’t let you, his hand gripping tighter against both of your wrists, still pulling you towards him so he gets impossibly deep into you.

“Oh yea, sugar. That’s it, there we go.” He murmurs, watching your face twist with pleasure, fingers slowing down on your clit.

You sigh once more deeply and land with your back on the desk again before looking to him, a lazy smile forms on his face, droplets of sweat hanging from his forehead while he slows down with his hips.

“Y’ready for round two, baby?” He asks, and before even getting an answer he starts rubbing your clit quicker. “Y’got a few more in ya. Gonna properly wreck this pussy.”

“Too sensitive, please.”

He only chuckles. “That so? Your cunt gripping me tight says otherwise.”

“And that sweet button, twitching like no tomorrow,” He nods, circling around it. “I’m gonna keep goin’ until you forget your own damn name sugar.”

It was a promise.

Joel’s thrusts start picking up pace again. You can only whimper around, when his cock starts punching into your cervix. And you were sure that at how tight he was gripping your wrists, that he was going to leave marks tomorrow. And you wish it was something that didn’t turn you on.

“Fuckin’ milkin’ me.” He mutters, noticing you squirming around with sensitivity, and when you break your hands from his grasp, you try to pull yourself upwards—away from his cock.

But he ain’t having it, he stills with his thrusts, roughly gripping your wrists again and holding them down to your stomach.

“Hold still,” He mutters and when you don’t, he tugs them sternly. “I said hold still, sugar.”

“I can’t—“ you cry out, feeling like you’re going to spiral when you feel his thrusts pick up again. He pinches your clit between his fingers, already feeling himself getting close. You let yourself get pulled up by his hand, now sitting on the desk again and your forehead’s touching.

“I know you can,” he whispers. “Don’t you dare to pull away, now. You asked for this.”

And maybe you did. Maybe you did when you asked for him to not go gentle. Maybe you did when you didn’t want him to be soft.

But it felt like too much.

He looks into your eyes, grunting curses under his breath, while you bite your lip so hard that you can feel it bleeding.

“That’s me takin’ what’s mine, sugar.” He nods his head, giving your lips a quick peck.

“Y’close, I can feel it,” his thrusts go sloppier and sloppier. “Keep goin’, baby. Focus on me.” He whispers.

And you do, focus on the way his cock hits your sweet spot over and over again, cries leaving your lips as you feel the need to release bubbles up once again.

“C’mon say you’re mine,” he grits out, “say it like you mean it.”

“Joel. Please.”

He slows down with his thrusts, his hand leaving your clit. A frustrated whimper leaves your lips.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours—please.” You blubber out, bucking your hips against his cock wanting any stimulation so you can cum.

“Louder, baby.” He demands and you do just that. Screaming “i’m yours” over and over again until he is satisfied and starts fucking you again.

Quick, sloppy and mouth on you, kissing your lips your cheeks and whispering encouraging words until you let go.

And when you do, he does too.

Your cunt clenches down on him, he lets you lay down on the table again and buries himself so deep that you can even feel him filling your tummy with every spurt that his cock releases into you.

Tears leave your eyes as you lay there, spasming on his cock, while he grunts and groans, slowly bending over your body and burying his face into your neck.

And the room goes silent again, save for the heavy breathing.

Gently after a quiet time passed Joel stands again, groaning while pulling his cock out of you.

“Filled ya to the brim, sugar.” He remarks cockily, watching as his cum oozes out of you. You sit up gently, your wrists hurting, breasts handing from your dress, limbs almost feeling numb and most importantly—your pussy aching from sensitivity.

He runs a hand through his hair, then steps closer, voice low and rough.

“You’re mine now, y’know.”

You look up at him, and something flickers in your chest—doubt, maybe. Not fear, just the quiet ache of wondering if this was only heat. If it ends here.

Joel sees it. Of course he does.

He leans in, gaze steady, voice softer this time.

“Ain’t just this once, sugar. I want more. If you let me.”

Your breath catches. You blink once, then nod—slow, shy, but certain.

“I’ll let you.”

His thumb brushes your knee, firm but gentle. “Ain’t no room left in you for that other guy, anyway. I made sure of it.”

You laugh—soft, the kind that curls at the corners of your mouth. You glance up at him, and Joel’s mouth twitches into something like a smile. “You forgot about him, didn’t you?” he asks, teasing but hopeful.

You nod, still smiling. “I think I did.”

Joel leans in, resting his hands on either side of your thighs, gaze steady.

“You wanna come back to my van?” he murmurs. “Ain’t gonna do nothin’ crazy. Just wanna hold you for a while. Maybe let you fall asleep on me.”

You nod again, and Joel kisses your forehead like it’s a promise—one he intends to keep.

Oh phew….that was a lot🤧 I’m a sucker for sleazy Joel and I hope you guys liked it and that it met your expectations lol

I haven’t had the time to really proofread it a hundred times so please, if you see any mistakes just ignore them! Or tell me and I edit it out☺️

Wanna be tagged in my posts? Just write your username in right here!🫶🏻

“Looking ahead for our chances at wintry precipitation tonight – measurable snow, freezing rain, or sleet. It’s hard to get snow here in central Texas – if only, huh? We’re seeing some strong flurries tonight, turning into snow showers in the early morning. Low chances of any significant build up, but you can expect hazardous driving conditions. Black ice and low visibility will make extensive travel dangerous–”

The radio in Keith’s Hardware is old fashioned, curving around the volume and tuning knobs. It’s one of the ones that still has a dial pointer, which is almost always aimed at 92.7 if Keith’s in the back (country); 96.7 (pop) if it’s just you and the only other girl that works in the carpenter’s wet dream of a store. Right now, though, it’s neither of those stations. The pointer is at 162.4, the weather station.

You’d known you were in for it on the drive into work. Watch the weather and it’s real nasty out there airing from your parents lips on your way out of the house for your eight hour shift. The drive had been a gunmetal sort of gray, clouds streaked through the sky and spitting bullets of sleet at your windshield.

For a little bit, the weather had almost cleared up. You’d sworn you’d seen a splotch of sun when you’d tried to step out for break, just to be driven back in by your too-thin jacket and the cold as balls temperature.

Now, though? It’s fucking freezing, and the flurries that the weatherman mentioned are starting to fall. And as much as you’d told Keith that your shitty two-wheel-drive couldn’t handle it, he’d insisted on scheduling you and Liz for close.

Which is where Mr. Miller comes in.

Joel Miller, your dad’s buddy. Joel Miller, the grumpiest secret-softie you’ve ever met. Joel Miller, a knight in shining armor with his 4x4 Ford F150 instead of a horse. Although, if your fantasies are correct – and you like to think they are – what’s between his thighs certainly makes up for the lack of a horse. But he isn’t bringing you for a ride on his cock. He just so happens to be the only man your dad knows with a four wheel drive vehicle, or at least the only one willing to spare you from spinning out by giving you a ride home. Just thinking about it has a knot pinching in the back of your throat. His hands, big and wide and stretching over the gear shift. One muscled arm dangling over the wheel. Looking over his goddamn shoulder to back out —

Liz hops up on the check-out counter where you’re counting up the last of the cash, a spread of Hamiltons, Grants, and Jacksons. You wouldn’t expect a girl like her to work at a hardware store, especially one in the backstreets of the seedy part of town. Some sort of family emergency had driven her back to Austin from NYU design school, which you’re thankful for. Mainly because you get out of cutting wood panels since she has the better eye for measurements, but also because after years of sulking in Keith’s, you finally have someone to talk shit with.

“Those heart eyes aren’t for fuckin’ Alexander Hamilton,” Liz says, tapping her acrylics on your ledger to get your attention. You cough, flipping her off with your pen still in-hand. Liz hums, pretending to think about it as you put down the last numbers. “Although I wouldn’t be too surprised. You do love a geriatric man.”

“Joel isn’t that old,” you scoff, arranging the bills into slim white envelopes and then licking them shut. “He’s just an… acquired taste.”

“Sure, his jizz probably tastes like prohibition-era booze–”

“What the fuck,” you wheeze, hands going out to brace yourself on the closest display case. Your head dips as your chest shakes with laughter.

Liz stays completely straight-faced as she continues, “You’ll have to have 911 on speed dial because if you clench, his heart’s giving out.”

“It is not,” you say, voice still strained with the laughs that won’t stop punching out of you.

She puts her hands up in defense and crosses her legs at the ankles. “Hey, it’s not my fault you like playing whac-a-mole with Great Depression dick.”

“Liz!” You playfully shove her off of the counter, thrusting the envelopes into her hands. “You’re nasty. Fucking nasty.”

She splays a wounded hand over her heart, fanning herself with the envelopes. “You know you love me.” She slips into the office behind the register. You hear the click of the safe before she calls over her shoulder, “Any particular reason you’re fantasizing on the clock?”

“Not fantasizing,” you refute. Liz pops out of the back with a uncertain look scrawled on her face. “My dad talked him into picking me up today so I don’t drive into a snowbank.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a shitty porno.”

“Don’t give me hope.”

“I’m just saying,” she grins. “You can still come to mine. Only a five minute walk with zero chance of rejection.”

“You have such little faith in me.”

She purses her lips. “Mkay…. Pro-tip: Keith probably has some Viagra sitting around in his desk drawers.”

“Liiiiiiiz,” you say. You’re about to tune her out completely when familiar headlights light up the wet asphalt, beaming through the windows. The engine idles, a soft rumble through the linoleum floors. The truck lights dim, leaving Joel in the buttery shine of the streetlamp. His thick arms stretch across the wheel, and he rakes one large hand through his hair. “Shit, speak of the Devil.” You clip off your nametag, tossing it into your half-open bag. “Can you finish closing tonight? I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“No problem, no favors necessary.” She closes the register. You fumble to get your bag over your shoulder, not wanting to keep Joel waiting. “Use protection!” she calls after you, and you make sure to flip her off one more time as the door clangs shut behind you.

A wall of cold hits you like a blade of lightning. Wind unfurls, mauling telephone lines and frosted treetops, rippling your jacket. Not even the worn scarf around your neck seems to be doing its job. Suddenly, every one of your limbs feels like an icicle. Joints almost freezing up, you half-jog, half-penguin strut your way to Joel’s passenger side. You wipe the ice off of the door handle with your sleeve. A few stray flurries dust you as you tug the door open, exhaling in relief as you haul yourself onto the side steps and into the toasty warmth of the Ford F150.

You cozy up in the seat, too preoccupied by thawing your hands with long, winded breaths to notice the affronted look Joel is throwing your way. “Are you tryin’ to catch your fuckin’ death, girl?”

“No death to catch. It’s not that cold.” The way you’re shivering says otherwise. Joel pins you with the raise of his brow.

Before you know what he’s doing, he’s groaning as he reaches over the center console into the backseat. You see a flash of his trucker jacket before it lands in your lap, flannel-lined and heavy. You use it like a blanket, draping it across your torso and wrestling your hands into the inside pockets. The canvas smells like car exhaust and off-brand Dollar General deodorant, two things that are so inextricably Joel. As much as you hate to admit it, the warmth is already inking its way across your skin – or maybe it’s just being next to Joel that’s heating you up. “Thanks,” you grumble.

When you adjust in your seat, the inside of your foot catches an empty Dr. Pepper can on the floor. It rattles when you accidentally kick it forward. You lean down and pick it up, going to place it down in the cupholder, only to find it overpopulated with random Home Depot and Whataburger receipts.

“Tax deductions,” he shrugs. “Gotta eat on the job.”

“And a…” You pick up the receipt and squint at the faded typography. “$3.29 strawberry milkshake is part of that, I figure?”

Joel grunts, “Tommy’s order.”

You smirk. “Sure it is.”

“Quit shit stirrin’ and put on your fuckin’ seatbelt.”

You reach back, fingers snagging it and tugging it down. Groping for the belt between the seats and the center console, it goes on for at least five seconds too long before Joel grabs the buckle and shoves it into the slot. His fingers brush your thigh as he pulls away from you and settles his foot over the gas pedal. The singular touch shouldn’t make butterflies beat at the walls of your stomach, but it does. Everything about him does.

Now that you’re all settled in, everything about him is also settling in. The fact that he’s only wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt now that his coat is off. His sleeves are constricting enough that his muscles bulge below the strip of fabric. Ample scruff dapples his jawline, and his hair is disheveled in the way that you’ve learned you like it. You trail your eyes down his body, his tummy, across the undone drawstrings of his dark gray sweatpants, and no, you move on quickly from there, because you refuse to get riled up in the passenger seat.

He’s slowly peeling out of Keith’s parking lot, arm thrown over the back of your seat. You’re starting to fail at your mission of not getting riled up when you see the flex of his bicep, the way his eyes meet yours as he turns to look through the back window. He turns out of the parking lot and onto the relatively barren, icy streets–

“What the hell are those?”

Joel side-eyes you, brows furrowed. He follows the line of your gaze to his feet, which you’re used to seeing in New Balances or steel-toed work boots, but are instead wearing… fur-lined crocs.

“These here? Yeah, got ‘em recently, good for my days off with all this nippy weather. Sarah told me they’re ‘all the rage’ with the youth–”

You can’t help it. You damn near double over with laughter, clutching at your stomach. Joel’s coat nearly slides off of you, but you hang onto it with your pinkie finger, quickly going dizzy from lack of air. “‘All the rage’? Oh my fucking God– Joel, she was pulling your leg. Those are fucking hideous.”

“Hey, now–” He sighs, pinching his nose bridge with the hand that isn’t dangling over the wheel. “Zip it, I don’t needa justify my shoe choices to ya.”

“Does she do anything other than give you shit these days?”

“You’re one to talk about givin’ shit, y’know,” Joel says. Unfailingly, he smiles. The smile that pulls at the edges of his lips. The smile that he only ever gets when talking about Sarah. It doesn’t matter where – loading up his plate with barbecue, your dad asking him while he’s picking up junk mail in the morning, or on the job. If someone asks him about his daughter, Joel fucking beams.

He sucks on his teeth for a second, and then, “She’s picked up soccer. Goalkeeper. Damn good at it, too, all them other kids on her team can’t match her collapse dive.”

“Of course they can’t,” you say. “She’s got better reflexes than a house fly.”

Joel hunches over the wheel, effectively ending the conversation as he concentrates on the road. The only noise is the rumbling engine and the wagging of the windshield wipers as he attempts to navigate the black ice polka-dotted roads. It shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, seeing him in such a state of focus, his thighs tensed as he manipulates the gas and brakes to stop early, start slow. His arms thickening when he makes a right turn. Thumbs drumming drumming drumming on the wheel and maybe they’d do the same between your legs—

“So how’s work?” you blurt out.

Joel mumbles something that you can’t quite make out.

“Huh?”

“Fuckin’ ‘big shot’ gringos up my ass all day. Goddamn shitshow.” He shakes his head, his lips thinned. “I tell ‘em terraforming is gonna make it look like a Flinstone-owned-and-operated putt-putt course. They say do it anyway. I tell ‘em that orderin’ custom windows is gonna put us months behind. They say do it anyway, then come up jibber-jabberin’ all ‘bout how long it’s takin’. And it’s fuckin’... window madness, not one window in that hellhole matches another. Ain’t had so much trouble buildin’ a house since Sarah had me build her one from Hobby Lobby when she was little. Their architect musta been doin’ lines.”

You think you’ve seen Sarah’s dollhouse before when visiting, just in passing when the guest bedroom door was left open a smidge. You remember stalling in the hallway to look at it, with a fleece of dust growing on the tediously placed shingles and the oakwood front door left open like it’d been waiting for someone to come home. But Sarah outgrew it, and although Joel would never admit it, you know he’s too sentimental to leave it on the curb.

“How bad can building a dollhouse from a kit be?”

“With a five year old yellin’ like a drill sergeant in your ear? Worse than you think. She even made me rig the damn thing with electric so she could have her pink chandelier.”

You pout at him, “Wah wah, I’ll bet you loved it.”

“Was a nuisance at the time. But, uh, she was fiddlin’ with some ‘a the dolls I’d gotten her. Don’t think she knew I was watchin’, had gone to put ‘er to bed ‘cause it was a school night. She was readin’ this book I always read to her. Something about… a stuffed bear with a missin’ button and a girl that was tryna to buy him. I don’t fuckin’ know–” “Corduroy?”

“Yeah, that. Anyway, she was reading, usin’ the same tone I always used with her, tucked her dolls in for the night, and switched off the lights. I don’t think I loved it until then.” There’s a glistening in his eyes at the memory.

You smirk, “Sentimental bastard–”

The truck slides. Or maybe it coasts, skimming across the thin film of black ice. Joel eases down on the brakes, hauling to a stop next to a Minivan with its warning lights on. It’s a long stretch, and you can’t even see all the way down the highway with how thick the snow is. No two snowflakes are the same, but you find it difficult to believe when you’re looking at what must be millions of them. They pirouette, landing on window panes, rooftops, and wind-agonized tree branches. Everything is blotted with white. Red warning lights glare on the ice back at you.

“Shiiit,” Joel says as he squints at the road ahead of him. He scratches at his scruff.

“Tell me you’re not going to drive through that shit.”

“I’m not,” he says.

“Then how the fuck are we getting home?”

“Chill it–” “That’s the last thing I need to do,” you huff.

“I’m takin’ the detour.”

With that, he jerks the wheel — a bit too recklessly considering the weather, in your opinion – and pulls off onto a slippery backroad. The snow seems to have clung to the trees more back here, a sort of incandescent saran wrap over the oaks. At a bend in the road, icicles hang from a yellow sign that says CURVE 30 MPH. Joel takes it at ten.

You’re not checking out his hands while he drives, no, of course not. You’re looking at the gazillion lights on his dashboard display. “You usually have that many lights on?”

“Ain’t your truck, ain’t your business.”

“I’m ridin’ in it, ain’t I?” you mock his accent. 

Joel sighs heavily. “Drivin’ me up the fuckin’ wall.” His hands clench briefly around the wheel. “Auto repair shop’s been price gouging, I’m tryin’ to get Tommy to hook me up with his buddy in San Anton–”

“Won’t be able to drive to San Antonio if your bumper falls off halfway there.”

Joel’s voice is dry as bone. “Ha ha. You get off on bein’ a smartass?”

It’s three words – that’s all it is. Just a throwaway phrase that he probably doesn’t even realize he said. If it were anything more, you’d know. But Joel, saying those words in that order? Damn him, because it turns your blood effervescent. You stop yourself from rubbing your thighs together underneath his coat. You’re about to make another quip that’ll not only distract you, but also surely drive Joel up the wall, one of your favorite activities.

His truck putters from ten miles per hour to eight.

Eight to six.

Six to four.

“Motherfuckin’.... shit,” Joel says again, this time much more urgent as he wrests the wheel to the side. The truck skims over the frosted roads and onto the shoulder, rolls for two seconds, and then falls to a complete, utter stop. The windshield wipers pause while they’re still up. Heat no longer spits out of the dusty air vents.

It’s the loudest silence you’ve ever been in.

“...So do you get off on letting your truck break down or–”

Joel sighs in the way that dogs do. “Thin ice, missy.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls out his phone. “I’ll give Tommy a call.” He stares at the screen for ten seconds. Taps it. Shakes it.

“No service?” you ask.

“No service.”

“Let me try mine,” you mumble, shifting in the car seat. Sure enough, zero bars. Even though you know it won’t work, you press your dad’s contact. It goes straight to voicemail. “Well, shit.”

“Shit,” Joel echoes.

It’s unspoken, but you both know the harsh reality of this harsh wintry night: no phone service, no operational truck, and… no heater.

“Hang tight,” Joel says, reaching over the center console and hijacking his coat from your lap. He wrestles his arms through the sleeves and zips it up. He shoves the door open against the hoarse wind that keeps the trees at a slant, hops out, then slams it shut hard enough for the vehicle to rock. From how hard the wind was blowing, stray flurries dust the truck’s interior.

You can’t really see what he’s doing – the snow’s too heavy, the hood popped wide open for him to investigate the truck’s viscera. You run your hands up and down your thighs, already feeling cold. Without the heater, it won’t be much longer before you turn to an icicle in the passenger seat. The hood bangs back down.

Joel climbs in from the backseat, slams the door as hard as humanly possible, and then scoots to the middle seat. 

You crane your neck to see him as he shakes out his cold-reddened hands before puffing air into his cupped palms. “What’s wrong with it?” You ask. 

He lets out a frigid breath. “Don’t fuckin’ know, snowin’ too damn hard to tell.”

“Ten bucks it was one of the lights on your dash,” you say.

Joel glares at you, still huffing into his hands. His fingertips are bright red to match his ruddy cheeks. Snow is sprinkled through his hair like soot, quickly melting to beads of water on his windblown curls.

“Got some… hand warmers up in that glovebox. Grab the whole pack.”

You lean forward, kneeing it open and rifling through all of his shit. Insurance papers, more receipts, Miller Contracting business cards, a folded pocket knife, lens wipes, and –

“When’s the last time these saw daylight?” you huff out a laugh as you hold up a battered box of condoms. 

Turns out, snow isn’t the thing that makes Joel Miller redder than a tomato. It’s the fifteen year old, very expired condoms hiding in his glovebox.

He clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Jesus. Forgot those were in there.”

You shake the box around and pluck a condom out of it. Looking for the expiration date, you turn it over and over in your hand. “August 31st, 2004. Really that long since you got some, Miller?”

“Put ‘em back,” he grumbles. “Pain in my ass.”

You snicker, replacing the condom box with the box of hand warmers. They’re unopened, still sealed. You snatch Joel’s keys out of the ignition and swipe them across the tape. “Happy?” you toss them over your shoulder.

“No.” He tears open the pack and rubs his hands together around the warmer, sighing when it begins to heat.

“Dick,” you grumble.

More tearing. “Brat.” Another warmer lands in your lap.

“Oughta get comfortable. We’re gonna be here a while,” Joel says.

“And whose fault is that?” You ask as you weigh the warmer in your palms. The front seat already feels cramped, and you’re quick to unbuckle your seatbelt. Your legs and arms fold like pretzels as you climb into the backseat. The curse that leaves you when you hit your head on the roof has Joel rolling his eyes.

“Pipe down. First thing in the mornin’ I’ll make the walk out to that country club a mile out and use their phone. Just gotta ride out the night. You ain’t ever roughed it before?”

You fall on all fours on the backseat, finally pulling yourself upright next to him. “Never had a reason to. Like, what if I have to piss? What if I get hungry?”

Joel shrugs. “Tough.”

The cold is starting to settle into your bones. Even your tongue feels popsicle numb, and your fingers are stiff where they wrap around the warmer. It’s like you’ve been trapped in a snowglobe and shaken up by a handsy toddler with how the wind rattles the truck and the snow swishes outside. You suppress a shiver, leaning against the door. Condensation is already building on the windows. Absent-mindedly, you begin to trace a portrait of Joel in the moisture. Your fingertip squeaks against the glass. Your masterpiece wouldn’t be complete without his signature scowl, so you’re sure to paint a frown on his face and his forehead wrinkles on thick.

“Didn’t know you were an artist,” Joel comments from the opposite side of the back. “Looks nothin’ like me, by the way.”

You smirk, “But you knew it was you.”

Because there’s nothing better to do than burn time, you spend the next ten minutes filling up the window with whatever nonsense doodles come to mind — hearts, stars, trees, and of course, the only one that Joel seems to be fond of: Sarah, smiling and curly-haired.

Reality only settles in when you’re done with the ephemeral illustrations, their outlines starting to dissolve back to regular droplets that streak down the windows. You’re stuck, for God knows how long, on this shady backroad that the Zodiac Killer would’ve loved during his heyday. With your dad’s best friend that you’ve been harboring a dangerous crush on.

And it’d be impossible to forget that it’s freezing fucking balls.

“Joel?” you say into the dark truck.

“Hm?”

Always one to speak your mind, you say, “It’s freezing fucking balls.”

A sound that might be a laugh leaves him. “Here,” Joel says, unzipping his jacket. He tosses it over to you, and you snuggle back up with it, nose burrowing into one of the creases in the fabric. His coat smells like him – like cheap body wash, chewing gum, and gasoline. 

You try putting your hands in the pockets, even going as far as to open up a new hand warmer for each one, but they’re full of loose change and, expectedly, more receipts. When you curl up against the corner between the door and the seat, the hard plastic bites into your oversensitive back. Sitting upright or cross-legged doesn’t work, and when you test drive sitting diagonally with your feet propped up on the console, Joel makes a disproving noise and swats gently at your shin. You prop your forehead up against the window, but it’s cold enough to give you a brain freeze. 

“Jesus Christ,” Joel snorts. “Get over ‘ere, you wuss.” He hauls you over, big hand splayed over your waist, and drags you across the bench to his side. You yelp in surprise, but only for a second before you’re crushed against Joel’s side. “Can’t have ya gettin’ hypothermia,” he jests.

You don’t know where to put your hands, but eventually, you settle on cupping his neck. Touching Joel, hell, even just being near him, is like being by an open furnace. Or maybe the heat is just your stomach doing somersaults at being this close to Joel after years of frivolous pining. His nape emanates warmth, the kind that flows down your arms and wraps comfortingly around your chest.

Joel exhales, the tendrils of his breath curling from the frigidity. He grabs his coat from the side and flattens it over the both of you, a piss poor replacement for a blanket, but all you’ve got.

Still, cold seeps in through the cracks in the doors, spoiling whatever lukewarm air remains. It doesn’t help that Joel had hopped in and out of the truck to play eye spy under the hood. The truck struggles to hold onto heat properly, especially when it isn’t producing more of it.

Joel sort of… flickers against your back. You think nothing of it until it happens again, this time in short bursts, and then turns into full on shivering.

“Who’s the wuss now, old man?”

Joel tenses up behind you. “Funny,” he says. With your hands cushioned against his neck, you feel the grate of his voice in his throat. “This is the best you’re gonna get unless you wanna be butt ass naked to share heat.”

It should be a joke. But the way he says it… doesn’t sound like a joke.

You go still, lifeless, not even sure if you’re shaking anymore. Because now, the only thought in your head is being pressed against Joel, his soft cock hardening against you, his palms splayed and rubbing over your stomach to keep you warm. And if his cock needed to get somewhere warmer, too…. Your clit twitches at the thought.

You smother the initial shock in your voice with your usual solution: sass. “So what, we’re gonna fuckin’ huddle for warmth?”

As much as you enjoy the idea, you're already dripping — and that’s just from your body being pressed against his, breathing the same air as him, closer now than you’ve ever been before. With no panties in the way, it’s not a stretch to say you’d be dripping down his thighs. You’d hate to have that conversation.

“Would you rather freeze to death?” Joel asks. You look up at him from where you’re curled into his side and find no gleam in his eyes. This isn’t just some knee-slapper for him. Joel Miller is being completely, irreversibly serious.

“I’d rather something less like Naked and Afraid, Joel!”

“It works,” he says, nose flaring. “They do it in those fuckin’... action movies all ‘a the time.”

“I didn’t know Hollywood was writing survival manuals for pervs–”

“God, you’re a piece ‘a work, ya know that?” His eyes flick down to you, and maybe it’s just the fact that this road is damn near pitch black, but his pupils seem larger than before. “Listen, I ain’t tryna perv on ya. I also ain’t tryna send you back to your old man with four fingers missin’ from frostbite.”

There’s no way you’re actually seriously considering this. You’ve heard of cold temperatures impairing thinking, but not like this. Your dad’ll go chasing after Joel with a pitchfork and a shovel if he finds out the man who was supposed to get you home safe and sound was cuddling naked with you. Cuddling naked with you in the backseat, no less. You’re certain Joel won’t try anything – he’s not like that. No matter how flustered you get in his lap, he’d never take advantage of you. What you aren’t certain of is your ability to stop yourself from asking him t0 take advantage of you.

This is practical. It’s only supposed to be practical. He wouldn’t be suggesting something this drastic if you both weren’t shaking like a rattlesnake’s rattler.

“Fine,” you say, already unwinding your scarf from around your neck. Determined to keep some semblance of boundaries up, you add, “No peeping, Miller.”

Joel makes an exasperated sound as you once again scoot out from his coat and across the bench, working yourself out of your shoes, your cotton zip-up, and then the stiff Keith’s uniform – a blue polo and jeans. Joel’s eyes are respectfully trained on the truck’s floor mats, which you’re only just now noticing has a sun-bleached Lisa Frank sticker tacked onto it. 

Down to your bra and panties, your heart rate picks up. Your fingers are so fucking cold that it’s hard to get your bra straps out of the way so you can unclasp the damned thing, and then it falls to the floor. Your nipples harden in the face of the cold. The only thing you keep is your scarf, which do you do your best to cover your tits with. Scooping up your discarded clothes and tossing them to the front seat, you let out a shaky breath.

Fuck it.

You shimmy out of your panties and get rid of them just as quickly. When you try telling Joel you’re decent, or rather indecent, nothing comes out. Instead, you have to clear your throat with a strained,  “All good.”

“Alright,” Joel says, rustling around. You hear his crocs scrape against the mat, and then his shirt swishing over his head.

He doesn’t tell you to look away, but since it’s implied, you look out of the window. The snowy trees tremble in the wind, and you almost wince when you see a small sliver of his tanned skin reflected in the glass. His crocs clunk on the ground when he kicks them off, and you watch his criminally tight t-shirt go flying over the passenger seat. You casually grip the Jesus handle, hoping that Joel doesn’t notice your fist tightening around it when you hear him untying the drawstrings of his sweatpants. When his sweats and boxers follow the path of his shirt, breathing gets a lot harder than you remember it being.

Just an hour ago, you’d been certain that this would be nothing more than a ten minute drive. Maybe, if you were lucky, he’d call you a casual pet name that would fuel the wriggling of your hand between your thighs that night. 

The tension in the air is thicker than molasses. Each breath you take is fragile.

“I’m ready when you are,” Joel says.

Since you’re already half-naked, and since chickening out is out of the question, you inch over to Joel’s side. The air tumbles out of your lungs in one fell swoop when your bicep meets his. With some fidgeting, you bring your legs up at an angle beneath you, wrapping around his side in a way that has you feeling a little bit like a koala. You talk yourself into keeping your eyes forward and then scrub your palms across your freezing arms.

Joel, more indifferent than you think anyone else in this situation could be, abruptly casts his coat back over the both of you.

And, fuck him, he’d been right. The engulfing canvas of his coat keeps warmth trapped where it can be passed easily between the two of you. Or maybe it’s just being confined and skin-to-skin with Joel that has you heating up.

The silence is cruel – it’s much harder to make conversation about work or dollhouses or whatever the hell else when you’re naked. Only the wind’s sibilance keeps you company.

You can get used to this, you think. Drift off into a somewhat sound sleep with your head on Joel’s shoulder and hope that you don’t drool all over him or moan his name in your sleep. More embarrassing things have happened to you.

But then, as if you’re the unluckiest person alive, the temperature drops even more, and suddenly, you’re shaking like a leaf all over again. Your teeth almost clack together as you try to stammer out to Joel, “C–cold, Jesus fucking… Christ that’s cold.”

Joel pouts down at you, but you don’t miss the way his lip quivers. “Should I call the wambulance?”

“Should I call the r–r–r–retirement home to pi…pick up a ru–runaway resident?” It sounded a lot better in your head than bouncing off of your frozen tongue, you have to admit.

“Drama queen,” Joel mutters into your ear. “Can’t do anythin’ more about it. Sorry–”

“Can I sit on your lap?” you blurt out so quickly that you don’t even have time to think about it. You grimace, partially covering your face with your hands. Shit.

Joel’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

You’re already half doomed. Why not go all the way? “Listen, it’s just fucking… fucking freezing, Joel. Holy shit.”

“That bad?” he chokes out.

“You’d be warmer than the seats,” you defend. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Best behavior.”

Joel seems to ponder it for a moment, brows stitched together while he looks down at you from where you’re furled up against his side. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek before giving you a slight nod. “Alright.” You nod in return, heart in your throat. “–But you better mean it when you say best behavior. Can’t have any ‘a this shit gettin’ back to your dad.”

Another nod. You hold your breath as you shinny your way onto Joel’s lap, mounting him from the front so his chest hits your back. In your attempt to get comfortable, you bracket your legs around his. His soft cock fits at the small of your back, and even though he’s as flaccid as can be, he’s big. Apparently your imagination isn’t too far off. Joel’s sharp intake of breath forms a pit in your stomach, and you know when you’re warming up for an entirely different reason than close proximity, you also know that you need to calm yourself down. Fast.

Think of something awful. Like that time that you had to dissect cow eyes in sophomore year biology. Think about mold. How many murderers you’ll walk by in your lifetime. Expired leftovers. Anything–

You adjust yourself in an attempt to get away from Joel’s cock. Instead, your hips move just so his cock slips between your thighs and bobs against your slit.

You whine.

Your body immediately locks up once you realize what you’ve done. Crawling out of the truck to die a hypothermia-induced death seems like a much kinder fate than facing Joel, but no matter how much you scream at yourself to reach out and unlock the door, your hands refuse to move. You hadn’t noticed how wet you’d gotten, and you have no idea how. It’s smeared across your thighs, and now pressed up against your back after Joel’s dick had dragged through it all.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit–

Chancing a look over your shoulder, you’re surprised to find the tips of Joel’s ears flushed, cheeks cherry ripe. His Adam’s apple bobs when you meet his eyes. Holy fuck.

You’ve flustered him.

For some reason, the thought makes your chest a lot lighter. You look away nonetheless, but this time, with a newfound gleam in your eye. There’s no such thing as a bad accident, right?

Maybe Liz was right about having to call 911, because when you ‘accidentally’ repeat the movement, Joel stops breathing all together. His cock, almost hard now, you’ve noticed, bumps against your clit. You almost swallow your tongue trying to keep your moan down.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” he asks, his gruff voice scratching at your ears.

“I didn’t mean to,” you lie straight through your teeth, a smug little grin spreading on your face. Something about his semi-hard cock between your bodies tells you he’s going to say no to your next suggestion. “Maybe you should put the coat between us, instea–”

“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind, girl?” Joel’s voice comes out raspy. He shakes his head, clears his throat. The vibrations rumble up your spine. “And take away the whole point of stayin’ warm? Now quit it. Ain’t that hard to sit still.”

You try your hand at listening – for all of two seconds.

You hike your hips up, fumbling with his coat as you slot his cock against your slit once more, pushing yourself forward. The coat slides right off of you, falling in a dark lump on the floor. Neither of you care — you’re both too heated for the lack of cover to make a damn difference. Joel hisses, a sound like water hitting an open flame. His hands fly down to your waist, anchoring you to his lap. A surprised noise squeaks out of you.

“What, you got rocks rattlin’ around in your brain?” Joel scowls. “You’re real impolite for a cocktease, sweetheart.”

Butterflies flap around in your stomach from his words. It’s enough to make your head tip against his chest so you can look up at him, lips shaped in a perfect pout. “I’m not,” you say.

“Not a cocktease, huh? Not even when you’re rubbin’ all over my lap?”

You gasp as your hands fly down to cover Joel’s, nails etching into where his fingers meet your bare skin. You tug at his wrist, trying desperately to guide him where you so desperately need him.

“Not happenin’,” Joel grunts, yanking your hands behind you and pinning them to your waist like you’re nothing more than a poseable doll. His large, work-worn hands make yours look damn near miniature as he holds you down. The sudden roughness douses your inner thighs with a new wave of wetness. “Jesus, girl. Poor thing, gettin’ all hot and bothered. Don’t blame ya for tryna get me to help out. Can feel ya dripping down my legs, gushin’ like a sprinkler.”

“S–sorry, fuck, ‘m sorry,” you whisper, words sticky with your arousal. Your clit twitches from his words, embarrassment and need doing all the work to keep you warm.

“Nahhh,” he says. “I don’t think you are, baby.” Maybe it’s the condescension he’s purring in your ear, maybe it’s the pet name; most likely, it’s a combination of both that has you convulsing in his lap. It’s like he’s found all of the right buttons to press to get you riled up, getting you back for all of your snide comments earlier. 

His fingers find the fabric of your scarf, luring it off of your neck so he can cord it around your wrists. You squirm when you realize what he’s doing, and a breathless huff of his laughter brushes your cheek. “I’ll be damned if you ain’t gonna be, though.” He draws it tight, tight enough for you to feel your pulses bumping into each other. Joel leaves a fair amount of your unreasonably long scarf loose.

“Joel, what the fuck are you up to?”

“Teachin’ you some sweet southern belle etiquette, darlin’. Such a goddamn troublemaker, grindin’ on me like I’m some kinda… frat boy.” He shakes his head, disbelieving. “Pullin’ that shit with your pops’ friend. Real fuckin’ classy.”

“Like you’re so different. Who’s the one that’s tying me up? Huh, Mil–”

You hear the hit well before you feel it, a firm whack to your cunt that makes your vision blacken and electricity scurrying up your spine. It takes you a second to come back to yourself before a ragged cry pulls its way out of your lips. You jolt in his lap, bound arms bobbing in front of you as your body instinctively lurches for control. You damn near kick your feet, accidentally ricocheting yourself into Joel’s chest. His forearms hold you there. 

“Guess I’ll make it crystal clear for ya, baby, since that dumb lil’ head ‘a yours is havin’ some trouble. My truck, my rules. You’re ridin’ in it, ain’t you?” You nod reluctantly as he turns your words from earlier in his favor. “That was a warnin’, you showoff. Think you can bat your slutty ‘fuck me’ eyes an’ get away with murder.” He fucking tsks at you.

He pulls his hand away from your pussy, and you’re both surprised and not surprised at all to see it covered in your arousal, webbed between his calloused fingers. 

“Got a whole goddamn slip ‘n slide down here…” murmurs Joel. You whine, bucking your hips against him. “Oughta just…” he starts, nudging his cock towards your hole. The noise you make is pathetic. “Stop ya from ruinin’ my seats. Cork you right up.” You tense up, fully expecting the intrusion, but his dick passes your cunt right up, instead sliding up to meet your clit. It taps against your swollen nub, and if his goal was to stop you from ruining his seats, you’re certain he’s already failed with how quickly you gush all over the upholstery.

“But that’d be real nice, wouldn’t it? Givin’ ya what ya want so early on…” Instead of pulling away like you expect, Joel griiiinds the head of his cock against your clit. You moan helplessly, head falling back across his shoulder.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And agai–

“Joooooel,” you whine, knees jerking each time his tip meets your most sensitive spot. Heat spins in your stomach.

He backs his hips up “What? Thought you loved this with how much you were gettin’ at it earlier.”

You shake your head rapidly in the negative, chest rising and falling at a breakneck pace while he teases you.

“So you can deal, but you can’t play?”

“I think you’re just taking your sweet old time getting it up, old man,” you grit out, knowing damn well he’s stiffer than titanium behind you.

Joel hums. “Ah, she’s got jokes.” His cock slips back, quickly replaced by his hand engulfing your mound. Your clit twitches ever so slightly against his palm lines, and you’re almost convinced you could get off from that alone. His palm cracks against your cunt again, somehow even harder than the first time. You cry out, eyes burning from arousal and the slightest edge of pain.

With his thumbpad, he taps your clit like he’s just scrolling through the cable guide with a remote. Fleeting movements that have you wanting more more more. It heals the sting of his slap even if the echo of the hit still simmers in your stomach. Your cunt throbs so hard that it hurts, jumping up to meet Joel’s scarce ministrations.

When he retracts his hand, your hips chase the movement. “See this?” he taunts, fluttering his wet fingers in front of your face. You make a choked noise when his drenched middle finger breaches your lips. He doesn’t even need to tell you; you latch on and suck yourself off of his calloused skin. You’re mostly salty, but a little sweet, and tasting yourself on your own tongue by his insistence manages to make you even wetter.

Joel takes his spare fingers, just as soaked, and smears them all around your chin and lower cheeks. He presses down on your tongue as he does. You gag from the pressure, and you can’t hear his laugh over the roaring of your blood in your ears, but you feel it rattle his chest where it meets your spine. Your slick cools quickly against your burning skin, syrupy as it clings to your face. “Need a bib, baby?”

He pulls his finger from your mouth with a pop and your scarf-wrapped hands spring to wipe yourself from your lips, hoping to save yourself from the humiliation of having your own pussy juice anointing your face. You only scoop up a little before Joel lowers his forearm over yours, but for once, you’re faster than him. You swipe your wet hand over his mouth, smudging as much as you can along the scruff surrounding his mouth.

He wraps a burly hand in the scarf and yanks your hands back into place. All you can do in response is giggle, but the breath is swiftly knocked out of you when he drives his cock right into your clit. “Think you’re funny, don’t ya?” He asks, and finally grunts as he rolls his hip into you. A break in his resolve, a sign that he wants this, or at least the discipline of this, as badly as you do.

You almost weep from the pressure, that rope of pleasure in your stomach that he keeps knotting tighter and tighter and tighter with each stroke of his cock, his fingers. “Joel!” you cry out as he follows it up with another firm swat to your clit. His cock spreads your folds as he softens the bashing, nuzzling his tip against your spasming cunt.

“Really, oughta give standup a go one ‘a these days. Be a real hotshot.”

“Oh yeah?” you pant, light headed and woozy.

“Mhm. If the whole crowd’s drunk.” His cock nudges your nub with a new vigor.

“Assh–”

Right as you’re about to press down and follow the sensation, Joel senses it. His cock gives way through your cheeks, just in time for him to land a ruthless slap across your pussy. It’s harder than the others – makes your ears ring for a second, gives you a sort of visual snow that has you doubling over and gripping at the closest object for purchase, which just so happens to be the metal rods coming out of the headrest. 

“Ain’t what you should be sayin’ if you’re plannin’ on gettin’ what you want, sugar,” Joel tuts. He shakes his head at you. “Don’t wanna hear no lip from ya, girl.”

You open your mouth, argument on the tip of your drool-loaded tongue, but your halfhearted attempt at defiance doesn’t last long. Joel’s hand clamps around your chin, denting your skin into your teeth. He jerks your head to face him, knocking you down a peg with scathing eye contact. “You’re pushin’ it.” He loosens his grip.

“As if, Miller. If those pre-Cold War condoms are anything to go by, you’ve been dying for a chance to get your dick wet. Doesn’t matter how much lip I give you, you aren’t gonna blue ball yourself for much longer.” Satisfied, you raise your brows at him.

Turns out, he is going to blue ball himself for much longer, because he lands six slaps in rapid succession across your sopping cunt. The skin smarts, and you cry out. Your grip tightens around the headrest rod to the point of strangling it. Your eyes water, and you can’t tell if you’re crying. Too consumed by Joel, everything has melted into him – the smell of sawdust perpetually sewn into his skin, his cock sealed against your body.

“How many times are ya gonna poke the bear before you learn your lesson, you cheeky little shit?” Joel’s palm cups the inside of your right thigh, just above the knee. He traces circles with his thumb, and heat trails after him with everywhere he touches. “See, the thing about havin’ ‘pre-Cold War condoms’ is that I’ve had a helluva lot more time to learn self control than you. Can wait as loooooong as it takes for you to get your head on right. Don’t matter if you’re waterfallin’ down my seats or not, pretty girl. I’m giving you exactly what ya deserve.”

You whimper, trying (and failing) to get your magma hot core closer to Joel’s unfairly large hand, still splayed out on your inner thigh. You can’t stop how you squirm in his lap, smearing your arousal everywhere with each movement you make.

At a snail’s pace, his hand begins to inch up your leg. Joel pauses to grope at you as his hand travels upward. Handfuls of your skin, rubbing at your scalding hot thighs. Your patience is wearing thin by the time he gets midway there. You need him to touch you. And that’s just the tip of this impossibly destructive iceberg.

You shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t have let him go down this shitty backroad, shouldn’t have agreed to your dad’s ridiculous idea of Joel picking you up, shouldn’t have asked to be naked on his lap, shouldn’t have gotten naked on his lap, shouldn’t be leaking like a twenty-year-old pipe in a building he’d been hired to renovate. If your dad ever finds out–

“Joel, please, please – plea…” you trail off, dissolving into incoherent whimpers as his hand hovers over your cunt. You’re running hotter than a radiator now, and if you both wanted to be warm, then you’ve got your wish. Although mostly gibberish, Joel has to understand what you want from him. It’s just that the bastard is unwilling to provide.

Joel reaches down to pinch your clit, and your body can’t even discern from pleasure and pain anymore. You react the same to it all, back arching as you try desperately to plant yourself on his cock. “Shhh, shhh, quit runnin’ your filthy mouth. Only gonna get yourself into more trouble.”

You swear you hear angels singing, swear you see the pearly gates when he gives your clit a merciful rub. Melting into him, you exhale shakily.

“See? All nice ‘n quiet when she’s gettin’ what she wants.” You wouldn’t even dream of mouthing off to him now.

“I want – I need…” you gasp out, putty in his hands. Moldable to his liking. Everything you’d pretended not to want.

“Go on,” he coos. “Tell daddy what you need.”

You don’t even hear him say that word. You’re too hooked on begging, begging, begging. “Please – Joel, oh god, please – I need… I need… please please please, fuck, it hurts–”

Joel clicks his tongue. “Nuh uh. Start over. Always such a chatterbox ‘cept for when I need ya to be.”

“Wha…?” you ask, admittedly dazed from the harsh treatment that you’ve come to crave more of.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he repeats, words molasses slow.

You clench, gushing even more all over him. Shit, your next paycheck might have to go to replacing the goddamn seats if you keep up like this.

“D–D… D-” you start stammering out, but you’ve lost autonomy over your body long ago, and apparently that goes for your tongue, too. “Da– Da… pl–”

“Any day now,” he scoffs.

“Daddy!” you spit out all at once. “Please, please, daddy, fuck – fuck me, daddy, please, I want your cock, daddy. Feels so fucking big. Need it daddy, it hurts… please, ngh– daddy!” Tears are burning the corners of your eyes, fueled almost entirely by arousal and partially by frustration. You squirm, cunt crying all over the place. 

“M’kay, baby,” he says. Running a hand down your chest and squeezing your nipple on the way down. He slides his hand down your stomach to cup your mound, giving your clit slow, gentle circles. Your hips jump forward, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. “Daddy’s got ya.”

At the first intrusion of his middle finger in your cunt, you jump. It’s a lot compared to what he’s been giving you, but nowhere near enough. A second finger slips inside. He doesn’t have to do much work to stretch you out — you’ve been seeping out of you since you first got on his lap. He’s all too quick thrusting them in and out of you – the messy squelch of your pussy filling the backseat has you burying your chin against your chest, averting your eyes. The heel of his palm bumps persistently at your clit with each shift of his fingers inside of you.

“I know you ain’t a virgin, but you’re soakin’ like one. Too damn cocksure to ain’t have had a cock in ya before. Prancin’ around like a glorified dick trap.” You inhale sharply when his fingers scrape that spongy spot inside of you that you can never reach yourself. A moan rips out of you. The combination of him talking down to you and rubbing your g-spot has you dangerously close to cumming. Your moan is quickly swallowed up by more of Joel’s condescension. 

He starts mumbling to himself then, obscenities that make you clench even tighter around his fingers. “Gonna get you all sore baby, make you regret beggin’ for this dick like a horny ‘lil bitch that ain’t ever been laid in her life. Fuck you so hard you’ll be cryin’ for daddy’s cock up your ass instead, turn you into an anal slut, too.” He’s too busy listening to himself talk, too absorbed in his own world to feel you balancing on that razor-thin edge.

The noise you make is inhuman. You pulse around him, doing your best to stave off your impending release. “Daddy–” you warn, but he cuts you off then, too. Joel grinds his cock between your ass cheeks, his precum dripping down your slit to meet your trembling cunt. 

“Ever been fucked here before baby?” He swipes his tip along your asshole, and the way you shudder is answer enough for him. “Don’t get all jumpy, sweetheart. Ain’t gonna fuck ya there right now. Be cruisin’ for a bruisin’.” Still, he replaces his tip with his free hand’s thumb, simply rubbing at the ring of muscle. You fidget in his lap without an end-goal. You just want to be close to him, want to take everything he’s willing to give you. His fingers hook just right inside of you. “Would love to be the first to unlock this pretty backdoor. If this tight ‘lil pussy’s anything to go by… Christ. You’d look so pretty squirmin with my cock in your ass, baby–”

“Daddy!” You scream as your orgasm guts you. His fingers and his voice rip your climax right out of you and your cum streams down your inner thighs and Joel’s hand, still smacking against your clit with each thrust. Your cunt spasms around his flexing fingers. He has to fold an arm over your chest to keep you from sliding off his slippery lap entirely.

All the way through the aftershocks that make your limbs quake, Joel holds you upright against his body, still bumping his palm and fingertips against your clit and g-spot. You swear you can feel him smiling against your shoulder.

“Didn’t tell ya you could cum, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, flicking his cum covered finger across your clit. You wince in overstimulation, a whine catching in your throat.

“‘M sorry, daddy,” you pant. His hands go up to 

“‘S okay, babygirl. Pretty pussy couldn’t help it when I was talkin’ ‘bout fuckin’ your ass, huh?” His hands rove up your stomach to play with your tits, palming and stroking, getting his hands all over every carnal part of you.

You hum into his bicep, “Mmmm.”

“That’s alright. Don’t mean you’re gettin’ away with a slap on the wrist though. C’mon, up,” he guides with a small slap to your thigh. You adjust, bringing yourself onto your knees so he can enter you from behind. You look down at his sturdy thighs, flexing as he adjusts himself between your legs. He gives you one more teasing thrust through your thighs, poking your oversensitive clit one more time before reaching down to spread your folds.

You moan as he presses against your entrance, and it’s not the best time to have a come to Jesus moment, but – Joel’s size was in no way over exaggerated between your legs. You stiffen in realization, and Joel, attentive as always, notices. He guides your chin to face him and nuzzles his nose up against yours, mouth tracing down to your lips. Your breath mingles, stagnant in the long-forgotten chill. A cushion of softness against all of his spiky edges that showed up tonight. “You’re on top, baby. Take it as slow or as fast as ya want.”

Nodding at the reminder, you find yourself that you don’t want to take it slow. You want to be as sore as he’d promised, want to feel him for days and be reminded of this every time you look at the winter morning’s frost on the shingles outside.

Sinking down over his throbbing length yanks the air out of your lungs as you seat yourself with him bottoming out and going balls deep in your cunt simultaneously. He grunts against you in surprise, softening the blow of your heady moan. “Attagirl,” he huffs into the crease between your neck and shoulder. It’s a stretch, searing up your thighs and to your lower back. You’re brought back to yourself when Joel rolls his hips into you, making the pain liquefy into mind-numbing pleasure. You spend thirty seconds waiting for him to fuck up into you in a way that changes your philosophy around the world, but instead, he’s still and solid inside of you.

“Go on,” Joel coaxes, placing a steady hand just shy of your mound. “Gotta prove you deserve to cum again.” He taps your thigh as if he’s telling you to giddy up, and the shame warms the back of your neck better than any heater ever could.

You whimper. His hands coast up your thighs, squeezing your hips tight before falling to grip the seats below. You’re still weak from your last orgasm, shaky legs struggling to hold yourself up as it is. “Daddy… I can’t…” 

“Ain’t no different than fuckin’ y’self on that vibrator or dildo or whatever the fuck’s in your nightstand. Girl like you, gotta have a wimpy ‘lil fucktoy somewhere.” His words make you clench around him, and he groans into your neck. Joel looks up at the front window, now covered in snowflakes. He smirks when he spots the rearview mirror. “Oughta make you watch yourself. Show a pathetic, cockstarved slut what happens when she bites off more than she can chew.” At that, you mewl, grinding yourself down. The chuckle he lets out is lined with cruelty.

Joel pins you to his chest with one burly arm and leans forward with a hash of grunts from effort. He reaches out towards the rearview mirror, lowering it to face the middle seat that you’re both braced on. He sinks back quickly, and it almost gives you whiplash before you make eye contact with yourself. You can see everything. Tremors travel up your legs and into your arms. Your body is getting freezer burn from how cold and hot you are at the same time. Pleasured tears threaten to spill over your waterline. Joel’s smug fucking face as he murmurs endlessly at you. 

Your mouth is parted as you take yourself in, truly a pathetic, pretty little picture as you pant. “C’mon,” Joel coaxes, squeezing your ass. “You can do it. Make daddy proud. I’ll even give you a boost.” Joel reaches to your tied hands and quickly undoes the scarf, letting it drop to the floor. You flex your fingers and then reach out for the chairs ahead to get a good grip.

You prop yourself up on your knees, anchoring yourself to the two chairs in front of you. Using a combination of your upper and lower body strength, you rise halfway off of Joel’s cock before your body gives out. His balls slap wetly against your clit. He laughs, still not touching you at all. Your head flops forward as you look down to where the two of you meet, and then at the mirror where his cock is buried deep inside of you. You whine in dismay.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was going to get you sore. You can only moan. It’s pleasure like you’ve never had it before – too much, not enough, painful, so good. “Please, Joel – I can’t… can’t handle it.”

“I’ll decide what you can handle,” he says.

“You’re– you’re so fucking mean,” you rasp.

“Gets you this soaked, baby. Don’t see your pussy complainin’. You love bein’ treated like a piece ‘a meat. Like a little fleshlight for men to fuck.”

You clench, tight. “Ah!” Joel fucking sniggers behind you, but a rush of confidence spills through you at the underlying moan in his throat.

Determined to get what you want, you tighten your grip on the front seats. Haul yourself up, almost so that the tip slips right out, and then collapse back onto Joel’s cock. And, shit, it’s a lot. You doubt you could handle his cock in missionary, but being made to ride him in such a compromising position, sprawled out across his shitty backseat? That’s an entirely different animal, one that you hadn’t expected to have to handle.

You focus on doing just enough to please him and just enough to keep yourself intact. You repeat your movements two or three times, rising and falling. Little moans and whimpers, some pained, some good when he nudges your g-spot just right, slip in and out of you.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it. Daddy’s ‘lil wannabe pocket pussy. Doin’ a ‘lil better baby. Keep doin’ that. Jus’ keep doin’ that.”

You’re shaking like a leaf on his cock as you somehow manage to lift yourself another time before fucking back on him. “Daaaddy.” Your lips quiver as you form the word. A single tear runs down your face from overexertion, and he’s quick to wipe it up with his thumb as if it was never there. You look truly whorish and pathetic, just like he’d wanted, bouncing on his cock with the last of the energy you have left in you.

His tip jabs against that goddamn spot again, and you double over on the center console. You take heaving breaths, making eye contact with yourself in the mirror, desperate to please as you attempt to keep humping him with the change in angle. You’re letting out strings of disoriented words, but barely can tell that you’re talking.

“I fuck you dumb already? Slutty little girl. Told ya you were in for it. Ain’t ever had much of a knack for listenin’. Gonna dick you down now, sweet girl.” He drags your legs into the crook of his elbows, holding you upright for him as he shifts to his knees between your legs. Braced on the center console with your pussy settled on his cock, the new angle makes you cry out. You hold yourself up on your elbows, giving shallow rolls of your hips in return as Joel gets settled inside of you.

The first thrust makes your eyes roll back so far that you see black. “Feel good?”

“So… so fu–fucking goo… good daddy,” you whimper into the console, gripping the sides of it just so you have something to hold onto.

“Swallowin’ daddy’s dick whole in this greedy cunt. Goddamn, drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. Such a masochistic slut, all after a poundin’ from an old man. All up in a tizzy for this cock.”

You moan your agreement, completely submissive to Joel’s wills. You move like a ragdoll for him, letting him yank you back on his cock while he meets you there, thrust for thrust. He pulls out, a small mercy, but when he sheathes himself back inside of you in full, it’s the beginning of a punishing pace.

You don’t even notice yourself drooling all over the console until Joel says something about it. “Droolin’ from two places. Yeah, baby, you needed this. Daddy’s pretty cockslut.” You whine especially loudly when Joel drags you back across the console, damn near fast enough to give your stomach rugburn. 

Hands framing your spread legs, Joel hooks them both around his torso, using the leverage to plow into you. You’re boneless beneath him, mouth frozen in silent moans. His hips meet your ass with each shove of his cock in your sloppy cunt, the obscene sound of slap after slap pealing out within the truck. “Damn lucky we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Joel growls on another thrust. “Someone woulda been knockin’ on the window long time ago with how loud you’re bein’.”

“Mmph,” you gasp when Joel tosses one of your legs up and over the passenger seat. You hold yourself there as he digs his fingers into your other thigh, shifting his spare hand to your mound.

“Daddy please please please plea–” you start panting like a broken record, desperate to feel his hand on your clit, which throbs with inattention on the console. You grind frantically on the edge just in case he denies you again. 

Joel laughs above you, fully smudging two fingers across your clit in a blur of indescribable pleasure. “Ain’t gonna make ya beg this time. Can’t wait to feel ya creamin’ ‘round me… maybe I’ll make ya lick that up too. Nasty bitch.”

“Joooel, oh fuck, please…” you whine as he continues railing you, this time fiercely tweaking your clit in-time with his movements.

The new position has his thrusts meeting your cervix, and you scream, pleasure corkscrewing through your body. There’s nowhere for all of it to go with how viciously it burns in your stomach – all you can do is take it and whine for him. “Takin’ it real good. See what happens when ya behave? You get this fat cock splittin’ your whore cunt in two, jus’ like you were askin’ for.”

He grips your hip tight, clearly expecting an answer. You slur, “Mhm, daddy!”

Joel rubs faster circles around your clit, spouting filth while he drills your pussy. You can tell he’s chasing his own release, too, hips frantically fucking in and out of you, his cock twitching every single time you clench. You’re burning up as he jackhammers your pussy. Your second orgasm of the night brims low in your stomach, “Come on, baby, know you’re close. Feel this slutty pussy squeezin’ me. You gonna ask permission like a good girl this time, or are ya gonna go back to your defiant little slut self?”

“No, daddy,” you whimper, suspended in thin air over orgasmic bliss. He’s rubbing your clit erratically, doing everything he can to hold you in place. “P-please daddy, can I come?” You practically scream it out.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Come for daddy’s, come allll over daddy’s cock.”

The band snaps. Your back arches, and you feel time stop in the second before you fall slack on the console, spasming from the best orgasm of your fucking life. Your clit feels like there’s fucking pop rocks on it, something that not even your vibrator has ever achieved. “Thank you daddy!” you cry out, repeating it as you lose all feeling in your bones. You hardly have any control over your body anymore – it’s just Joel Joel Joel Joel. Sated and weary, you just lay there, letting Joel fuck into you.

And fuck into you he does – roughly, helping you ride out your orgasm as he pursues his. “That’s my girl,” he says, and you swear that alone could make you cum all over again. “Lettin’ your daddy use this juicy, well-fucked cunt to get his own.” He can’t hold back his moans, that’s how you know he’s close, grunting and gasping as he rocks his hips into yours. His hand lands on your ass in a sharp smack, and your pussy clenches in exactly the way that he expected. He lets out a particularly ragged noise, folding himself over you to nip at your neck and rest his forehead against your shoulder blade. “Daddy’s close, where do ya want me, baby?”

“Tits,” you whine. It’s a miracle you can even get that one word out, but somehow, you manage a few more. “Come on my tits, daddy.”

“Fuck!” Joel shouts, yanking himself over you. You help him roll yourself over and sit up on your elbows, and he jerks himself once, twice, before spraying his load all over your tits with the loudest groan yet. His brows fold together as he cums, eyes drooping and his mouth parted as he takes deep breaths.

You sit there for a handful of heavy minutes, listening to each other’s jagged breathing and the sawtoothed wind outside. You’re both so fucked. Literally, and figuratively. Stuck in the buttfuck middle of nowhere, you with your dad’s proclaimed bestie’s cum drying on your tits, and said bestie staring at you with post-coital puppy dog eyes and your cum all over his balls.

You’re the first to speak up, still winded. “That was… that was good.”

Joel nods mindlessly, tongue swiping out to lick his lips. He beckons you closer, and on trembling legs, you bring yourself to the backseat. You return to your previous position, huddled up and curled next to the door. Joel fumbles around under the back bench for a little until he comes up with a small, sunbleached pack of princess-themed pocket tissues that have to be as old as Sarah is. He dabs at your chest before stuffing them into the closest empty cupholder, and then brings you closer to his chest.

You don’t notice yourself falling asleep when all you can feel is Joel.

There’s better ways to wake up than a furious rapping on the window, but that isn’t the first thing you notice. You blink your eyes open groggily, only to face an egg yolk sun cracking wide open over the treeline and snowmelt bleeding out from every given surface. Joel’s behind you, nose in your neck, snoring softly with his arms wrapped around your middle. You take a moment to admire him – his sun kissed skin and his peaceful expression. It takes you a moment to remember you slept with him. You slept with Joel, and it was the best fuck of your life.

You’re stretching, on the verge of a yawn, when you see the familiar head of black hair over the window. “Shit!” you shout. Joel jerks to life behind you, mumbling something that sounds a lot like ‘what?’. 

You scramble to pull the coat over the both of you from where it fell off of you in the middle of the night, covering your naked bodies. “Get dressed!” you hiss to Joel, searching for wherever the fuck your panties ended up last night.

“What the hell’s gotten into ya–” he starts, and you feel the exact moment that he realizes Tommy Miller is outside of the truck. “Motherfucker,” he curses, swaying towards the front seat to snag his clothes. You see him almost put his head through his T-shirt armhole three times before he gets it right. His sweatpants are next, which he tugs up his bare legs without even searching for his boxers.

“Joel?” Tommy shouts outside. “Wake up, sleepin’ beauty!” He knocks on the door again, the windows blurry from melting snow. You have that to thank, at least. It buys you enough time to tug your polo over your head, but not enough time to button it all the way up.

“Fuckin’... dumbass,” Joel huffs as he clips the lock on the door and kicks it open, looking at least somewhat composed. You take deep breaths, looking between the two of them. “How’d you find us?”

Tommy looks Joel up and down, scrutinizing him. “What happened to southern gentleman manners? I came out here to save ya from Mt. Everest, brother! Least you could say is ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you,” you fill in for Joel, even if the last thing you’re feeling is grateful.

“Her daddy threw a hissy fit, y’know? Told him you were fine and we’d go lookin’ for ya in the mornin’. We saw all that backup on the highway, I went this way, he went that way, turns out my gut was right. ‘Course my dumbass brother would take this route… hey, you’re truck’s a fuckin’ mess.” Tommy sinks his hand into the closest cupholder, pulling out a wad of tissues that have been soaked in his cum. You hiss as if you’ve been scalded with boiling hot water.

Joel starts, “Tommy–”

“What the fuck is this shit?” The realization seems to dawn on poor Tommy when he’s peeling apart the tissues, and he drops them like they’re a thousand pounds. You can’t even bring yourself to scold him for littering as the wind carries them away. “Joel. You dirty dog!” He says, eyes flitting between the two of you like it’s the most impossible thing in the world.

Your heart picks up to a speed that can rival most NASCAR drivers and your face burns like hot asphalt. You look pointedly down at the ground.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Joel seethes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get outta here, you little shit.”

Tommy’s hands go up. “Hey now, I ain’t doin’ anything. That is not a conversation I wanna have with her daddy.” He clears his throat, effectively clearing the air along with it. “So, uh, truck break down?” Joel grunts in affirmation.

“Been tellin’ ya you need to make a stop at the auto shop… C’mon, I’ll get y'all home,” Tommy says, jingling the keys to his own truck. “Call a tow on the way.”

Joel drags his feet all the way to Tommy’s passenger side. You get your wallet and jacket together, winding the latter around your waist. The sun almost blinds you on your way out, and Tommy stops you.

“I hope you didn’t let ‘im stick it to ya with them prehistoric condoms. You’re smarter ‘n that.”

“God, no,” you huff out.

“I dunno what’s stupider, lettin’ my asshole brother hit it raw or gettin’ a UTI–”

“Okay!” you announce, hands going up as you round the back of Tommy’s truck. “Conversation over.” You’re still smiling playfully at Tommy as you clamber into the back of the truck, sighing when the air conditioner hits.