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ADVICE FOR FIRST TIME WRITERS

Free Printable Coloring Book

Graduation parties for Ivy League brats. Champagne in fancy crystal flutes and catered hors d'oeuvres getting passed around on silver trays. Men in loafers and pastel polos calling each other “old buddy” without any irony. It’s a far cry from his usual crowd—his mangy old t-shirt and stained blue jeans stick out in the place like a damn sore thumb.

The invitation came from a distant friend, someone he used to work with before his career took him in an entirely different, much shiner direction. He was here more as a favor than anything else. Tommy’s been worried about him, says he needs to get out more.

“Meet some new people, drink a few beers.” He’d said with his hand clasped on Joel’s shoulder. “It ain’t healthy to spend every weekend fixin’ shit around the house, Joel.”

Joel doesn’t see the problem. He’s fine the way he is. But somehow, he still got roped into going when he could have used any excuse to pull out at the last second. He could have faked sick, faked busy, faked like he had anything else to do besides sit at a fancy oak table on a back porch bigger than the whole first story of his house, decorated in Yale blue balloons and streamers. 

He regretted giving into Tommy the second he pulled up in the driveway—a too-big Craftsman style place in West Lake Hills, all clean laid brick and perfectly manicured lawns. Joel couldn’t for the life of him remember why he said yes in the first place. Maybe it was the guilt of worrying his brother. Maybe for the decent catered food and overpriced beers he knew would be there when he first got the address.

What he hadn’t expected—what hit him in the goddamn chest when the door swung open after he knocked—was you.

And Christ, did you look smug about it.

It had been months ago. The only reason Joel was even in Connecticut was to meet with a client, a big time East Coast entrepreneur who wanted a new add on to his ten car garage and was fine slinging around the money to pay for a round-trip flight and a cushy hotel room.

He hadn’t planned on going to the bar that night, but after hours of back-and-forth about permits and material costs, he needed a drink. Just one, maybe two—enough to take the edge off before heading back to the hotel.

It was a shitty little dive about ten minutes from where he was staying. The beer was cold, the lights were low, and he wasn’t supposed to be making decisions with his little head. But then he saw you across the way, right in the middle of the dancefloor.

You were in a circle with a few other girls, your dress riding up higher and higher each time you’d roll your hips to the heavy bass blaring from the overhead speakers.

Joel watched you like that for a while, leaned up against the bar lazily sipping at his beer. He hadn’t planned on doing anything about it, just sat there and enjoyed the view. But you’d caught him looking, and instead of turning away and pretending not to notice, you’d smirked.

Joel should have known right then that he was in trouble.

It wasn’t long before you left your little group and made your way over, slipping on the stool beside him like you belonged there, like you’d already made your mind up about what was going to happen next. You’d leaned in close, close enough for him to catch the scent of whatever perfume you’d rolled over your throat before heading out—something rich and heady that damn near made his head spin.

“Hey, cowboy.” You’d said with a tilt of your head, the long column of your neck dewy with a light sheen of sweat he wanted to feel under his tongue. “You’ve been watching me?”

There was no accusation in your voice, just a quiet sort of amusement, like you already knew the answer.

Joel had huffed a laugh, he didn’t see the point of denying it. He was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “Yeah.” He’d admitted, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. “What about it?”

Your eyes dropped down the length of his body, studying him, and he’d let you. Let you take your time looking, even as heat crawled up the back of his neck.

“Buy me a drink?” You’d asked, smiling up at him like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.

That was all it took.

One drink turned into two, which turned into three, and then you were leaning into his space like you were made to be there. Your index finger teasingly tracing along the collar of his shirt as you whispered something filthy in his ear that had all the blood in his brain rushing down south.

Joel really shouldn’t have let it go any further than some goddamn footsie under the bar and a few dirty words whispered over the rims of shiny glasses, he was too old for shit like that. But you were just so damn tempting—confident and sharp and pretty as all hell.

Before Joel knew it he had you pressed up against the side of his truck, giggling into his mouth, fingers tugging at his belt like you couldn't get it off fast enough. You’d tasted like the fruity cocktails he bought you and something sweeter underneath, something distinctly you, and Joel had to have more.

You let him have it too—fisting his shirt and dragging him into the backseat without a care in the world, all eager hands and breathless laughter as you straddled his lap.

It was supposed to be just that. A reckless decision with a pretty young thing as the cherry on top of his trip. A one-night deal he’d let himself have because, fuck, it had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.

Joel tried his damndest to think how he should’ve, tried not to let some one off fuck turn him all sorts of ass backwards. He tried his damndest to boot you out of his mind the next morning when he was boarding the flight back to Austin—but you stuck anyway, like a burr in his goddamn brain. 

The way you’d looked sprawled out under him, eyes glazed over with pleasure, lips parted, or the way you’d moaned his name like it was a prayer you needed him to hear. The way you’d rode him nice and slow, dragging your nails down his chest just to watch him shudder. The way you’d kissed him after, lazy and sweet, before sneaking off into the night like a goddamn thief.

Joel could've sworn he saw God that night, a smudged silhouette in the fogged up windows of his truck.

And now you’re here, standing in the doorway of some polished, high society home, looking like sin wrapped up in tulle and pearls.

Joel wasn’t a man who spooked easy, but seeing you again, surrounded by people who had no goddamn idea what you’d let him do to you in the backseat of his truck all those months ago, knocked him on his ass harder than a sucker punch.

The recognition was damn near instant, your eyes shining just as much as the sparkly sash that read “GRAD!” in big glittery letters. The initial shock gave way to a tiny, secret smile as your gaze slid up and down his body shamelessly, like this was some kind of funny inside joke. 

Joel was seconds away from turning tail, walking back down your ridiculously long driveway and getting in his truck to get the hell out of there, but then your father was walking up behind you with a big grin on his face. He clapped Joel on the shoulder roughly and introduced his “Old buddy Joel Miller from his blue-collar days!”

You were all coy smiles and wide eyes. A sugared, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Thank you for coming…” passing through your glossy lips.

The same lips that left shiny red smudges along the skin of his cock when you slid him down your throat, peering up at him with glassy eyes. The memory alone was enough to get heat stirring deep in his gut, and the way you looked at him now—all demure and polished, like you were some angelic scholar fresh off a podium—only made it worse.

Joel is too damn old for this.

“Very top of her class,” your father boasts, swishing his beer bottle through the air towards you flippantly. “Can you believe it? Just think of what we were doing at her age, brother. She sure as hell didn’t get any brains from me, that’s all her mother.”

Joel tries to chuckle with him, but it sounds strained, forced. He keeps his eyes facing forward, knee bouncing restlessly under the table. You’re looking at him again, hot and persistent against the side of his face. The heavy weight of your gaze practically begging him to look back. He doesn’t.

This dinner is it’s own form of torture, because of course, you just had to sit in the empty seat next to Joel—close enough that he can feel your knee bump up against his every few minutes.

He’s done a good job avoiding you until now, always walking the other direction when you waltz into the same room, not making eye contact when your gaze would sweep over the crowd hoping to catch his, trying for once in his life to be a good man.

A good man that suffers through this damn party without doing something he'll regret, that leaves at the end of the night and never has to see you again.

“Yeah,” he says, nervously starting to pick at the label of his own beer. Some snobby, imported New England brewery, probably sixty bucks a six-pack. “Good times.”

Joel can see you lean forward out of the corner of his eye, the neckline of your dress sliding down an inch as you stare at him, attention rapt. “What were you like back then, Mr. Miller?”

Joel nearly winces, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer hard enough to turn the skin around his knuckles white.

‘Mr. Miller’ echoes in his ears lewdly, blaring like church bells. Your voice is nothing but a honey-sweet mockery, so syrupy he can nearly feel it trickling down his throat to add to the warmth settling low in his stomach. 

Your father snorts over the lip of his bottle, answering you before Joel could open his mouth. “Joel didn’t go to college, honey. He went into the trades right after graduation,” he takes a long sip, Joel feels your knee bump against his again. “That’s how we met.”

You hum, nodding your head languidly. “You’re an architect too?”

Joel shakes his head, not looking at you as he answers. “Carpenter.”

Your father launches into some story about his old work days with Joel, about how back in the day, they were “real men” with “real jobs,” but Joel can barely process any of it. He nods along absently, lets out some half-hearted chuckles when he needs to.

Joel nearly puts his knee through the table when he feels your barefoot brush up against his ankle, hiking his jeans up ever so slightly. He shoots you a glare as subtly as he can.

It’s a look so sharp, so warning, that it should be enough to make you back the hell off from whatever game you’re playing. You’re not even looking at him anymore, eyes glued to your father as you nod along to whatever story he’s telling now. 

But there’s a knowing little smile on your lips as your hand creeps beneath the table and falls into his lap, the pads of your fingers pressing against the inside of his thigh.

Joel goes still. Rigid as his breath catches on a sharp inhale.

Christ, you’re trying to kill him.

Your father’s voice pulls him out of the silent panic and heavy arousal waging a war inside of him. “How’s business, Joel?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. “You and Tommy still running things at a hundred miles a minute?”

Joel barely registers the question as your hand inches higher and higher. He can hear his own pulse pounding in his throat, in his chest, in his cock, already half-hard in his boxers from some goddamn heavy petting like a wet behind the ears teenager. 

“Yeah, we–” Joel pauses, willing his voice to steady with a quick cough to clear his throat. “We’ve been pretty busy with Summer rollin' around.”

Your father hums in agreement, cracking open another beer. “Of course, my schedule’s been a killer too this season,” he brags shamelessly, tone heavy with understanding like he and Joel are in the same boat. Only your fathers boat is a three million dollar yacht sailing for blue-print meetings with big shot celebrities and architectural digest interviews. “It’s a miracle I even had time to fly in for the party, isn’t that right sweetheart?”

Your hand slides up the length of his cock in one slow stroke, your palm grinding roughly over the tip through the tented denim.

“Yes, daddy.”

Your voice has gone all light and airy around the edges, almost melodic as it buries itself in Joel’s ears. At first, Joel thinks you’re talking to your father, but when his eyes flick over to you, you’re looking at him—your eyes half-lidded and sparkling with something dangerous as your fingers tug at the tab of his zipper.

Joel’s hand flies to your wrist, squeezing tight enough to stop your pawing at his now fully hard cock. “Alright if I use your bathroom?” he asks sharply, his voice a little too loud. He tosses your hand away and stands abruptly from his chair before he’s got an answer.

“Of course,” your father says easily, thankfully not noticing the tension at the table, or the way Joel’s trying to subtly hold his hands over his crotch. He turns his attention towards you, “Would you show Joel where the downstairs bathroom is, honey?”

Your smile only widens as you slip your sandal on and calmly stand from your own chair. “Sure,” you say breezily, but you’re not looking at your father, dark eyes still glued to Joel’s. “Follow me.”

The flowy fabric of your dress swishes behind you as you walk through the yard, Joel hot on your heels. He waits until you're both in the house, stepping through the open sliding glass door and out of view before his hand flies to your arm and squeezes hard.

Joel hears you wince softly, but you don’t try to fight your way out of his grip. He leans down closer, his lips inches away from your ear. His voice is low and rough as he grits out, “Take me to your room, now.”

You lead him through the kitchen and up the stairs silently, but Joel can still see the smug smile on your lips as you turn the corner. The need to slap that bratty shit right off your face wracks through him like thunder, anger burning hotter in his chest with every step.

You push the door to your bedroom open and step inside, barely turning to face him before Joel slams the door shut behind him and stalks past you. His eyes are dark, filled with a mix of rage and want as he stares you down.

“Do you think this is a goddamn game?” His voice is teeming with fury, the calm facade he scarcely maintained at dinner now entirely gone. “That you can do whatever the hell you please because your Daddy’s sittin' across from you?”

You bite your bottom lip, leaning against the door with your arms crossed behind your back coyly. “You didn’t bring me a present.”

It’s a taunt if Joel’s ever heard one, and it finally breaks him.

He crosses the room in three large strides, pinning you against the door. His hands on either side of your head, caging you in. Joel cranes his neck down, his face inches away from yours. He can smell your perfume this close, it’s different than what you wore at the bar—something soft and girly and sweet that has his cock straining in his boxer.

“You’re real fuckin' proud of yourself aren’t you?” he spits roughly, watching the way your pupils dilate, eyes going glossy under his intensity. “Does your old man know how much of a tramp his precious little baby girl is? That she’s got such a greedy fuckin' pussy she can’t help herself from rubbin' his buddy Joel’s cock under the table like a desperate slut.”

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, all the attitude draining from you at the drop of a hat the second he gets a little mean. Your eyes are stuck on his lips and, after a beat, you start leaning in, like you’ll die if you don’t kiss him.

Joel stops you with a hand fisted in your hair, keeping you still a few centimeters away from his lips. A pitiful whine falls from your slack mouth, wide eyes flicking back up to meet his with a pleading look.

“You want me to kiss you, princess?” he asks, mean and condescending. Your breath puffs over his lips, hot and needy as you nod your head as best you can. Joel laughs, dark and cool as he shakes his head slowly. “Whores like you don’t get kissed baby, they get fucked.”

It does something to you—Joel can see it in the way your lashes flutter, in the way your thighs press together, like you can feel his words between your legs. He watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, the way your lips part as a little breathless sound escapes them, and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

Desperate. Squirming. Ready to let him ruin you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, low and almost reverent, but the wicked curl of his lips betrays the softness in his tone. “Bet you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You nod, your chest rising up to press against his with every breath.

“Words,” he demands, voice sharp as a needle. Your thighs twitch at the sound of it.

“Yes,” you breathe shakily. “I’ve been wet since you got here.”

That has Joel groaning, jaw ticking as his cock twitches heavily in his boxers, pre-come oozing into the cotton.

He doesn’t waste another second. He drops your hair to grab your shoulders, pulling and pushing until you’re tumbling onto your old bed. You let out a sharp gasp as your back hits the mattress, the force of it bouncing you a few times.

Joel looms over you, watching you, finally letting himself get a good look at the picture you make. Splayed across dainty floral sheets, chest heaving, staring up at him with need written all over your pretty face. It practically pumps off of you in waves, he can almost taste it.

Without another word, Joel reaches for his belt, his heavy gaze never leaving yours. The metal of his buckle clinks loudly in the quiet of the room, underscored by the quick pants of your breath. It snaps with how hard he yanks it out of his belt loops, the leather cracking in the air menacingly.

"You wanted this," Joel mutters, popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with a sharp hiss. "You practically fuckin’ begged for it."

You make a desperate little sound at the sight of his cock finally being freed from the confines of his jeans—thick, heavy, and leaking when it slaps against his stomach. Your legs spread wider like an offering, like you need it in you now.

Joel huffs out a laugh, grabbing your ankle and yanking you down the bed, making you squeak in surprise. He climbs on the mattress, his body completely blanketing yours so you couldn’t move if you wanted to.

His hand drags down your body, over the swell of your breasts, over your ribs, the curve of your hip, until he’s gripping the hem of your dress. Joel slips his hand under the skirt, rough palms gliding up the soft skin of your thighs before gripping the meat of them hard enough to bruise.

The thought of you finding the marks tomorrow, pretty shades of purple and yellow branding your skin as a reminder of this moment, of what Joel did to you—it makes his stomach flip with a sick thrill.

It doesn’t take much for Joel to push the bunched fabric around your hips the rest of the way up, exposing the barely-there scrap of lace covering you.

He makes a sound low in his throat when he sees the little damp spot blooming along the powder blue fabric. “So fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, tracing his middle finger along the wet seam of your pussy, featherlight, teasing. “Can’t even sit through one damn dinner without beggin’ for my attention like a two-bit truck stop whore.”

You nod frantically, lips trembling, pupils blown wide as you blink up at him.

Joel tsks mockingly, raising his palm to give your clothed pussy a sharp slap that has you crying out. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Joel.”

Your voice is so soft, so wrecked. And Joel feels himself get impossibly harder, his cock throbbing where it’s pressed against your stomach, blurting pre-come onto the delicate pink tulle of your dress. He can hardly wait any longer.

Joel hooks a finger into the leg of your panties, dragging them down hard enough that he hears a rip. He can’t find it in himself to care, he just pulls them far enough that they pool around your ankles uselessly.

He finally takes himself in his hand so he can drag his cock through the wet mess of your pussy, bumping it up against your hole but not giving you a damn inch. A devastating noise falls from your lips, slow and sweet as molasses, your hips buck up off the mattress, trying to take him in. He presses one heavy hand down on your stomach, keeping you still.

“Ask me for it,” Joel whispers darkly, slapping the head over your glistening clit. “Beg for my cock.”

Your fingers curl into the sheets, frustration and desire burning in the inky black of your pupils. “Please, Joel. It’s all I can think about, can only think about you,” you ramble senseslessly, voice breathless. “About you fucking me. About your cock stretching me open. Please fuck me, please, want it so bad.”

Fuck, he loves hearing you beg.

Joel grips your hips, holding you steady as he presses inside, slow at first, just enough to make you gasp, enough to let you feel how thick he is stretching you open. He curses, head falling forward as he watches himself disappear inside you inch by inch.

Your hands scramble along the length of his back, nails scratching uselessly as you try to adjust to the sudden fullness. Joel knows he’s too big, the stretch too much all at once without prep. He knows it. He just doesn’t give a damn.

“I know, it’s a big stretch ain’t it?” Joel coos, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the skin of your hips. “You can still take it, darlin’. It’s what you wanted, wanted me to lose my goddamn mind and ruin this sweet little pussy.”

You nod desperately, a loud cry bursting from your chest as he pulls you back until his hips are flush with your ass. Your velvety heat feels scalding around him, snug and perfect, like it was made for him—made for his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt—forcing you really feel the full, aching stretch before he starts to move. He drags his cock out to the tip, almost all the way, before slamming forward again, knocking the breath from your lungs. “That’s it—take it all, just like that.”

Joel sets a brutal pace, fucking you so deep he swears he must be in your goddamn guts. His grip is merciless, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses them to pull you back against him, meeting every punishing thrust. The dirty sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the slick squelch of your pussy as it tries to suck him back in each time he pulls out, the pretty soft gasps and moans you’re struggling to keep quiet the cherry on top of it all.

It’s so loud, a symphony of lewd sounds bouncing off the walls enough that Joel would be worried that someone might overhear if your house wasn’t such a maze.

Joel watches you writhe beneath him, your back arching, hands grasping at his shoulders, his arms, his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucks into you with ruthless precision. Every thrust sends a shockwave through your body, makes your breath hitch, your legs trembling where they’re locked tight around his waist.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, voice a low rasp in your ear. “Too dumb to talk now, huh? Just layin’ here, takin’ it like a good little whore.”

Your eyes roll back in your head when he tilts his hips, the new angle forcing his cock to rub up against your sweet spot with every thrust. “Joel–”

Joel leans over you, breath hot against your ear as he mutters, “This what you needed, baby? Needed Daddy’s friend to hike your pretty dress up and fuck you good and hard like this?” He speeds his hips up fast enough to get the bed shaking on its frame. “Actin’ like a spoiled little brat all night just so I’d drag you up here and teach you some fuckin’ manners?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck—” Your words slur together, breathy and high-pitched, your fingers twisting in his hair as he keeps up that relentless pace.

Joel reaches up to snatch your jaw in a tight grip, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. “Open your mouth,” he growls, fingers digging into the meat of your cheeks meanly. When you don’t, too fucked out of your mind to listen, he shakes your head back and forth like a bad dog. “Open it.”

The command breaks through the pleasure filled haze clouding your mind, and your mouth falls open obediently. Your slick lips parting enough for Joel to see the enticing pink of your tongue. A groan claws its way out from deep in his chest, and he leans down close to spit into your mouth.

Your moan is a high, choked whine as your eyes flutter shut, your pussy squeezing around his cock impossibly tighter. 

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ swallow,” he says, fucking into your clenching heat harder. “Hold it right there.”

You open your eyes to stare up at him like he’s some kind of God, your lashes clumped together and glossy with unshed tears—gaze glazed over with a kind of bliss that makes something dark and satisfied wriggle to life in his chest.

“Good girl,” he mutters, barely above a whisper, but the words hit you like a sack of bricks. Your walls squeeze around him, and he groans low in his chest. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you even wider so he can watch the way his cock disappears into your puffy pussy, shining with your slick every time he pulls out. “Look at that. Fuckin’ made to take cock, aren’t you?”

You moan around closed lips, nails digging little crescent moons into his shoulders so hard that he can feel his shirt ripping under the force of it. Joel can tell you’re getting close, your whole body trembling violently as the coil of your orgasm winds tighter and tighter.

“Go ahead and swallow for me, baby girl.” Joel needs to hear you, needs to hear you say his name when you come on his cock. “Wanna hear that pretty voice.”

The sound of you swallowing is music to Joel’s ears, his hips stuttering as he watches your throat work.

“Please,” you gasp, fat crocodile tears rolling down your cheeks. “Need to come, need you to make me—”

“Yes,” he hisses, his thrusts turning sloppy for a beat before he regains his rhythm. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock nice and good?”

His words push you right over the edge. Your entire body tenses, pleasure rolling through you in a white-hot wave as your climax crashes over you, stealing your breath. You sob Joel’s name, thighs shaking uncontrollably, body shuddering beneath him as you clench down so fucking tight he can barely move.

Joel groans, his jaw going slack as he watches you fall apart, losing himself in the feel of your pussy milking his cock. He grits his teeth, hips snapping erratically as he chases his own release. 

“Fuck—gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Gonna fuck you full of me, make you mine.”

With one last thrust, Joel spills inside of you. He buries himself as deep as he can go, warmth flooding your core as spurt after spurt of come paints your insides, thick and hot. His body shakes with the force of it, a deep, guttural moan falling from his lips as he rides out his orgasm.

Joel just stays there, panting, his forehead resting against yours.

For a moment, both of you are too overwhelmed to move. You just lay on the mattress tangled together in the aftermath, breaths mingling, bodies slick with sweat. Joel smooths his hands up your sides, grounding himself as you both come down from the highs of ecstasy.

When you finally stop shaking, Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, to take in the wrecked, spent look on your face. He brushes his knuckles over your sweaty cheek, softer than before. “Still think I didn’t bring you a present?”

You let out an amused huff, pushing your hands up under the back of his shirt so you can trace the column of his spine with gentle fingers. “Trust me, it’s the only present I’m getting that’ll be worth a damn. Money can’t buy this, Miller.”

Joel chuckles, low and smooth as warmth blooms in his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You earned it, baby.”

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! mwah.

joel miller, who near goes into cardiac arrest when his glasses give him a crystal clear rendition of you settling between his legs under his work bench as your hands trail up his denim-clad thighs

joel miller, who is eternally grateful to the patrol group that found the abandoned opticians lab as he drinks in the sight of your soft lips wrapped around his cock - so grateful, that he keeps one hand on the back of your head to guide you, and the other on the hinge of his frames for fear of losing them (and the glorious sight before him)

joel miller, who insists on you riding him that very evening. who, for the first time, is a lot less ashamed of the maroon plastic framing his eyes as he keeps his glasses on during the act - “Christ, you’re a fuckin’ vision, baby” is all he can muster between groans, barely blinking behind the glass as he palms at the soft swell of your tits

joel miller, who’s glasses creak a little as he buries his face in the crook of your neck when he cums deep inside you; shuddered breaths making the lenses steam up yet again

joel miller, who wakes up in the morning, swats at his bedside table and soon realises that instead of being on the nightstand, his glasses are in your grasps, being meticulously cleaned with a scrap of material - the same man who falls a little more in love with you when you admit that you’ve been doing it every morning for him before he wakes up

And he’d get it when he clamped his palm over your mouth. At first, your brows lifted with surprise, then pinched inward like you didn’t understand, then twitched again, involuntarily, when the head of his cock cleared a path straight toward your cervix. You whimpered into his hand and made a point to dig your heels even deeper in his back. Joel had promised he’d be better about that.

“‘M’sorry,” he mumbled.

Another stab. Another whimper, only louder this time.

“Sorry, baby, I’m—” Joel stopped to fight back a groan of his own, before pressing his palm down with even more force, “—sorry, jus’ need ya real quiet right now, okay?”

You tried to nod, but the weight and stricture of his grip were as heavy as lead against your face. Add to that the soft, sawing motions of his cock going in and out of your cunt and the nudge of his oversized tip at your cervix, and it was all you could do to just lay there and take it. Joel knew this was brand new to you—he’d been your first not too long ago and the only partner since—so he eased back and lifted his hand when you gave it a tug.

Grey stubble was already licking at the corners of your mouth with Joel’s minuscule kisses of reassurance when you giggled and squeezed him tighter between your legs:

“I’m tryin’, Joel. Really, I am,” you whispered.

“I know, sweet pea,” he whispered back, “I know.”

He took the palm he’d used to stifle your moans and smoothed it over your cheek, coming to rest at one side so he could kiss you fully. Maybe a hand was too much.

He’d inculcate restraint some other way, and if it didn’t come easy, a few more fucks on the forest floor like this one would probably do the trick. Your mouth opened up for his tongue just like your cunt would open up for more of his cum and the rest of your body would surely follow suit, learning to control the noises of pleasure as needed.

“Good girl,” Joel murmured against your lips, feeling you clench around him and expel a breath rather than whine. He withdrew himself to the tip, then plunged back in, “Such a good, perfect girl for me, ain’t ya, sweetheart?”

At length, you yelped into his mouth. You couldn’t help it. Rather than reprimand you with words or smother your lips with his palm, though, Joel kept fucking you gently.

“‘S’okay, pretty girl, it’s okay. I know that feels good.”

His mouth was next to your ear now, praises audible to no one else but you. It added a whole new dimension to your pleasure; Joel could tell from the way your walls constricted around him and choked him, sucked him in. The feeling nearly elicited a groan from his chest, but of course, he had all the resolve of a seasoned professional. Decades and decades of practice had done that for him.

“Joel,” you mewled.

Your face was screwed up in a grimace, eyes likely to be brimming with tears any second now. Joel slowed his pace once more, felt a pang of guilt for how big he felt inside you—how those decades and decades of practice set you drastically apart from each other in experience—and this time, he didn’t try to muffle your whines. He just stroked the top of your cheek with one thumb, and with the other, snaked a path between your body and his.

Admittedly, Joel was still learning about yours. He wasn’t sure if the whimpers you’d made were born wholly of pleasure or just a sense of being stretched out and filled. Because you yourself were still learning to be vocal, Joel figured he’d give the latter a stab. He started thumbing your clit in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure.

It worked, and it didn’t.

Your walls parted easily beneath the quiet ministrations of his thumb, opening yourself more to Joel’s thrusts, but they also tore a scream out of your throat—the kind that was liable to stir the leaves on every tree and alert any clicker within a two-mile radius to your presence.

The kind of outcome Joel had been trying to prevent when he’d brought you on patrol with him in the first place. The kind of sound he was trying to fuck out of your body completely; teach you to keep quiet and still for when the two of you inevitably got bored during perimeter watch and rolled the sleeping bag out to fuck.

Joel tensed above you and cast a quick look around. Sure, he’d picked a decently safe spot, but then you—

“Joel, I—”

Without thinking, the man stopped and stuck the first thing he could possibly fit in your mouth: his thumb. Whatever you’d been trying to say to him was promptly lost in a hum against his knuckle, lips enveloping the thick, callused digit like some tangy-flavored lolly. Joel’s hips sank back into yours, slowly, and he felt the reverberations of another moan spill over his finger.

He swallowed and stared. That shouldn’t have been nearly as sexy as you’d just made it seem, especially when your life and his hung in such a precarious position.

Joel dragged his cock back out and happened to graze a sensitive, spongy ridge inside you, which made you moan again. You hollowed your cheeks and gritted your teeth a bit more against his thumb, gripping Joel’s forearm for support as he continued to fuck you.

And, had you stayed like that a moment longer, you probably would’ve seen a shiny string of drool start to pool and stretch and fall out from one side of his mouth. Instead, Joel switched hands and popped the thumb that had been toying with your clit into your mouth, eyes glazed over with desire as they drank in the sight of you sucking his thumb again. The tip was still soaked with your warmth and slipped easily past your parted lips.

Another sound bubbled up your throat when you got a taste—Joel had always been in the habit of kissing you after eating you out, so you were well-acquainted with the flavor, but never had he fed you your own arousal on his finger. This felt obscene, something more than just pornographic as those deep, brown, lust-addled irises remained glued to where your lips closed around him.

“Y’like that, huh?” he said, voice reduced to a whisper once more while you nipped and suckled at the skin.

You bobbed your head to indicate yes, opened your mouth to tell him softly that you liked it so much—loved the taste and grit of his finger on your tongue, in fact. You wanted to show him you could be vocal, too, when Joel’s frame rose over yours a little more and seemed to blanket it entirely. Like he wanted to shield you, in a way.

“Shhhh, shhh…keep suckin’ like that. Stay still, okay?” Joel murmured, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that this was a test. He was nodding, rutting gently between your legs, wedging his thumb deeper inside the wet, velvety contours of your mouth and waiting for a look from you to say that you understood.

You weren’t sure if you did, but you nodded anyway. Joel’s thumb made a wonderful sort of makeshift gag as he continued to thrust inside of you, his body somehow lowering to get even closer to yours. When he’d gotten sufficiently near, he pressed a kiss to the side of your mouth—now stuffed with his thumb and leaking spit—and muttered something about how good you were for him, how nicely you fit around his cock. Then he tilted his hips and proceeded to pound you into the ground like an animal in heat. The only thing separating your ass from the patch of grass underneath it was a flimsy little blanket, and the only thing tethering you to earth, it seemed, was Joel’s cock. Your ankles locked behind his back, and his nose settled next to yours, breathing hard.

Even if he knew how to suppress his moans, the panting and strangled gasps were far beyond Joel’s control—as were the filthy, perverse words pouring out of his mouth.

“‘S’all mine, ain’t she, hon? Tell me this pussy’s mine.”

“Tell me she’s mine to fuck, stuff full’a cum, right here.”

And he gestured to the spot where your body stopped and his began, squelching noises punctuating each new thrust. Neither one of you minded the sound right now, especially when you knew where this was headed next.

Joel was grinning against your skin before he kissed it.

“She wants a baby, doesn’t she, honey? Wants me to put a baby in her and make that belly swell up pretty?”

You knew just as well as Joel that neither of you wanted children in a world like this—thoughts of breeding only occurred to you both when you were about to cum. Particularly when Joel’s thumb was slipping out of your mouth and his fingers were pinching either side of your face in a single grip, lips moving above yours. Making you meet his gaze as he squeezed your cheeks in a pout.

“You want my babies, baby?” Joel mumbled.

You felt a familiar twitch in his cock. You nodded.

Joel pinched harder and shook his head, unsatisfied.

“Say, ‘I want your babies, Joel.’”

“I want your babies, Joel.”

“Say, ‘I’ll be nice and quiet if you cum inside me.’”

“I’ll be nice and quiet if you cum inside me, please, Joel.”

Your voice was already hoarse from how low you had to whisper, how hard Joel’s broad and hefty stomach was pressing into your own, stealing the breath from your lungs and wreaking havoc on your brain as you struggled for air and imagined a world where your tummy was a little rounder. Plugged up with his cum one day and growing bigger with his child there inside you the next. The thought was dizzying in the abstract, enticing to the slightest degree in reality, and if you had to guess from the expression of the man currently sweating, grunting, and rutting into your body, you’d bet he felt the same.

It really was a shame you had to stay so quiet.

But, whether a clicker was five miles away or standing directly over his shoulder, Joel didn’t seem to care at all. Soft, silent reserve cast aside for the time being and hips slamming a bruising pace against your own, Joel seemed fine to let out sounds to show he was right about to cum. Grunts and whimpers were spilling left and right off his filthy, pretty tongue; his eyes were all but rolling back.

Truly, he couldn’t look more magnificent if he tried.

“Fuck, baby, I’m— I’m so close. Gonna fill you up.”

Featherlight clusters of soft grey hair were now darkened with sweat. They rested comfortably across his forehead. Under them, two thick brows furrowed in concentration.

“Gonna knock you up,” he added through gritted teeth.

That part was not a threat, but a promise.

You felt a tug and a pinch in your own stomach, signaling your oncoming release. You spread your legs wider for Joel, pressed a kiss to his jaw when he leaned in closer, made room for him to spill his load just how he wanted, and when it seemed he was a second from his peak—

A twig snapped nearby.

Sometimes you think about divorce — about putting an end to the life you’re living and starting a new one from scratch, from the ruins of your twenties and your marriage. Jeremiah wouldn’t want a mess, wouldn’t want anything tarnishing his reputation, wouldn’t want anything upsetting his mother. He would, most likely, let you off the hook easily, and aside from his ego, he would not be hurt.

It would be tedious, gathering all of your clothes, folding and packing them into your luggage set, probably getting a few boxes as well, having to figure out how many rolls of tape you’d need. Your bathroom would probably be easy to clean out, with the drawers still half empty and the medicine cabinet never opened. If you wanted to, you could sit down now, write a list over all of your belongings, and likely miss less than ten percent. It has never been your house, you have always felt like a long term guest. You never let it get messy, never dirty or unorganized, but sometimes, you wonder who you’re doing it for when he barely seems to notice. 

The inevitable alienation is likely what keeps you confined, perhaps even sedated in some ways, complacent with how things are. Even if you worked full time, and your paychecks covered rent for a small apartment, you’d feel like a stranger to this city, this state. Knowing yourself, you’d feel pulled back towards a home you’re not certain you’re welcome in anymore. It would feel like a free fall, severing ties with everyone keeping you here, and being completely on your own.

Those logistical things always come to mind first, way before the emotional fallout, the inevitable grief and heartbreak for the life you thought you would live. Because, even though you cannot honestly say you love Jeremiah anymore, you envisioned a future with him for several years, and you were promised that future with the ring on your finger.

You saw yourself having his children, you saw yourself taking them back to New Jersey to see your old friends. With your husband and mother in law around, and a child or two down the road, you thought it would make up for the painful absence of your parents, for the stinging silence between you. It had to be enough, your found family, because without them, you would be alone. 

You look out of the window, onto the back yard, and you close your eyes and try to imagine how it would feel to live by yourself. It feels peaceful when you’ve gotten past the logistics. 

So why haven’t you? 

What would I do if we got a divorce? Jeeze, I’d take it as a sign that I have to go and mend my relationship with my parents, tell them I screwed up, tell my mom she was right, that she told me so.. Fuck… I’d owe them that much, wouldn’t I? 

Or— I mean, I assume they’d want to know about it. They still care about me, I know that, I care about them too but it’s just… You ever feel bad for every time you’ve ever been mean to your mom? Like, have you ever felt that shameful, embarrassing stomach ache from remembering every time you told your mom you hate her, as a kid? Imagine that as an adult. 

Like, I never said I hated her or anything, not as an adult anyway, but did my actions express anything other than impulsivity and taking her for granted? I doubt it.. I sacrificed my entire relationship with my mom, for my marriage, like.. She never liked him, at all, she thought he was arrogant and cold and I never listened, I was too infatuated with him and— I don’t know,  I guess I just thought he was really hot and mysterious. 

Now I realize he was just emotionally unavailable and I saw it as some sort of challenge, or— or something for us to get through that would make us closer as a couple  — fuck me, right? It unfortunately makes total sense now, though, cause my dad was almost never there when I was growing up, so I'm used to emotionally unavailable men. He was at work all the time, then when he was home he kinda gave me crumbs. Like, he’d watch a movie with me sometimes and I’d be so happy, then he’d go back to work the next morning and I’d wonder why we couldn’t hang out anymore, why yesterday and not today. 

I just didn’t understand, and he never really said he wanted to hang out either, like… He never talked to me about the movies, he never said he wanted to watch the follow-up or anything. He just acted like it never happened, and he obviously didn’t know that I was sitting there and waiting, every weekend, hoping he’d wanna watch a movie with me again. 

Isn’t that fucked up, Gianna? Being married to someone and wondering if it’s just your daddy issues making you want them? Dude, Jeremiah's barely even told me about his own dad, about his death and all that. He’s told me he was a cheater and that’s that, now his mom calls him a saint all the time and I seriously doubt she doesn’t know what he did at night. 

There’s so much I still don’t know, and I don’t think he has any plans of telling me, but when he does tell me something personal, I feel relieved somehow, and I just sit and wait for him for him to give me another crumb of information about his own past, like I sat and waited for my dad to ask me about school or tell me about work, or his life, anything. If I sit and think about it long enough, I start wondering how well I even know this guy and I’m fucking married to him… Sorry for the word vomit — I’m done after I finish this one, by the way, holy shit. 

Were all of these doubles? Oh my god, I’m gonna feel like ass tomorrow. Fuck me. 

Don’t tell anyone I told you all this… Shit… I’ve been sitting on it for, like, a year, just waiting to tell someone. I could never tell Jade and them, they’d never even think about leaving their cheating ass husbands as long as they have access to their credit cards, so they can’t relate. They’d probably just shun me or something. 

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I cheated, like, if I went out next weekend and met some guy and just fucked him then and there. I don't think I'd even feel bad.. At least I'd get some good dick for once, hopefully... God knows it's been a while, I can barely remember the last time.

I’m going to the bathroom, can you ask the waiter for a refill when he comes by?

—

“You’re home today, right?”, Jeremiah asks while he puts his coffee mug in the sink, checking the time on his wrist. You nod behind your own cup, still sitting at the dining table while you take a sip. “Guy’s coming to do the shower at nine.”

“Mason’s guy?”

“Nah, he got caught up on some other reno — called a local company, talked to some guy named Tommy, sounded like a real cowboy, yeehaw. Him or his brother will be here, he said. Sounded nice enough.” 

There’s no way. Please say there’s no way.  

“Okay,” you chirp, and say goodbye as he disappears into the hallway, telling him to have a good day at work, hiding behind your coffee, feeling your breath go shallow and your hands start to tremble. You wonder if Joel knows, or if Tommy sent him the address and the assignment and he didn’t pay much attention to the name. There has to be more Jeremiahs around here, no? But Joel wouldn’t overlook that, you’ve already felt how observant he is, taking in every word you’ve said to him, noticing every change in your voice and body language, his eyes tracking your limbs at that parent-teacher meeting, watching your hands disappear under the sleeves of your sweater.

You’re pretty sure you can never hide anything from him, not who you’re married to and not how you feel about him already. In your desperation, you’ve already gone and told him you need him — what dramatic wording, as if anyone truly needs someone they barely know. It feels like you already know him, though, like your body and your soul know him and all that remains is factual knowledge about his life, about how he ended up with Ellie in his care, how he married someone who doesn’t take what he seems to give so selflessly. 

It was strange, watching how Gwen looked at Joel as they sat across from you. You’d think that knowing they had a child together would make her look at him with more than half-focused attention. The thought of having a baby with him, no matter if that baby is inside of you or close to leaving the nest like Sarah is, makes you feel a sort of yearning you could never even conjure up in your wildest, most unhinged imagination. To think of a man like that changing you so viscerally, creating cells that would stay in your body for as long as you exist, altering your bone structure, making you a mother — it makes you dizzy with need. You ache to feed a child with his eyes, and yearn to wait for him to come home to you every night. You want to stay awake into the early mornings, listening to him softly snoring while you feed his baby and soothe her to sleep on your chest. 

You don’t think you’d ever be able to look away from him if it were you sitting there at that tiny desk in the classroom, if it was you and his child you were there to discuss. He asked so many questions, wanting to make sure both of the girls were doing well in school and socially. He’s a good father, an exceptional one, so involved and interested and attentive that it hurt to witness — in your heart and womb and your bones. You didn’t see that ache in Gwen’s expression, she only seemed to touch him or pull him closer when he had your attention. But you couldn’t help the way you looked at him and you can’t help the way you feel when you know you’ll see him in only an hour. 

—

When the doorbell rings at nine AM sharp, you take a deep breath, lift your hair back over your shoulders, crack your neck, and stand up from the couch. Your steps are muffled by the fuzzy socks bunched up around your ankles, padding through the kitchen and the hallway to reach the front door. You wrap your fingers around the handle, push down, and with your heart in your throat, you see him. Your pulse skyrockets.

He’s looking out onto the front yard, with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and he’s wearing a green flannel shirt, different from the blue one he wore the last time you saw him but just as worn and lived in. The fluttering in your chest is almost unbearable, making your hands shaky and your mouth dry. No matter how much you prepared, scrubbing and shaving and moisturizing just to feel your best, no part of you was ready for the visceral reaction you’d have to seeing him in front of you. 

His surprise turns into a reluctant chuckle when he recognizes you, and he runs his hand through his hair, mumbling a cross between a greeting and an apology. You smile and shake your head, holding the door open. “I knew, don’t worry. Jeremiah talked to Tommy and told me an hour ago that you were coming over,” you say, and when you can tell he’s about to ask about the name on the contact information for the job, you hold up your left hand, engagement ring and wedding band sparkling in the reflection of the sun, “Kept my maiden name. I figured Tommy would show up if you knew but I couldn’t really object to anything without an incriminating reason. That, and I wanted to see you.”

He nods carefully and subtly cranes his neck to look past you. “He’s at work — come in,” you nod towards the interior and take a step back, letting him walk up the stone stairs in front of the house and past you as he gets inside the room. 

He seems to hesitate a little as he stands in front of you, tall and broad, so much larger than yourself, but never threatening. The hallway seems smaller with him in it, the ceiling not as tall and the space a little more crowded. His eyes are fixated on yours, and he’s frozen still before pulling you in for a hug. 

“Hey,” he says, with his face in the crook of your neck and your hand on his nape. His cologne hits you immediately, the fresh scent of his body wash and shampoo and deodorant — not as intoxicating as his sweat at the end of a long summer day but enough to make you bite back a smile. Hey yourself, you kiss his cheek the same way you do to your friends. It’s cautious, careful —  you want more. 

“It’s the shower in my bathroom, take your shoes off and I’ll show you, then you can get your stuff or— you have to get stuff, right? I don’t know how any of this works,” you laugh a little nervously. He kicks off his boots with a nod, sounds good, and follows you up the staircase and down the hall, looking at how you slide across the hardwood flooring in your bright blue socks, barely lifting your feet on every step. A chuckle escapes him, and you immediately stop, whipping your head around, “What?” 

He stops in his tracks too, takes a step forward and hooks his hand around your waist to pull you into him, to look down at you and touch your hair. Every room he sets foot in suddenly feels less empty, less cold. The bare, sterile white walls feel less suffocating when you imagine what it might be like to tag along with Joel to work on someone else’s house. It can’t feel much different than this, with Joel leaning in to steal a kiss from you when he should be getting to work, when you shouldn’t be tempted to get in someone else’s bed with him. It’s Jeremiah’s bed, it always has been, and when you feel like a guest in your own home, who is to stop you from clinging to the only thing that has felt familiar in years? 

You feel his hand on your jaw, his thumb on your cheek and his fingers around the base of your skull as he walks you backwards until you reach the end of the hallway and your back meets the wall. He presses up against you lightly, with your hands on his chest and your gaze locked with his.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, and his other hand finds the small of your back to pull you closer, “I still miss you, I still think about you all the time. And I want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anything, I want you, and I’m married and you’re married and I don’t— I don’t know what to do about that but I need you to myself.” His voice lowers as he comes closer, his lips barely brushing yours, “You belong to me, and don’t tell me you don’t cause you know just as well as I do that you’ve been mine since I had you in that bed. That wasn’t an accident,” his eyes shift between yours as he shakes his head, “That was meant to happen, you know that.”

“I do,” you breathe, closing your eyes and surrendering to his hold on you, “But I don’t think you understand, baby, I’ve been yours since the first time you touched me.” His shoulders relax at the term of endearment, at your fingers twisting in his curls, your eyes opening to see him softening for you, looking at your lips, blinking slowly, kissing you as if it is the first of an immeasurable amount of times that it’ll be just the two of you together, all alone. He gives you his tongue gently, with slow sweeps across your own while the light smacking sounds fill the room. 

You pull him away by his hair and he gives in, leaning his head back like you’re scratching his skin right where it itches. “I don’t wanna mess up your schedule,” you whisper, “I’ll make us lunch in a few hours, okay? Then we can talk. I’m home all day, if you need anything just call my name and I’ll be there. Jeremiah’s working late, he won’t be home till after you’re gone.” Joel nods, and with a soft kiss, slow and tender, with your head and the curve of your hip in his hands, he releases you from the wall and lets you show him what he’s here for. 

“This is my bathroom,” you say, tilting your head to the left, then run your hands down his chest and motion for him to step in first. You follow behind as he looks around the room, at the large bathtub facing the door, the spacious marble countertop, and the ripped up shower in the corner, enclosed by clear doors. “We already had a guy take off the old tiles, and he was supposed to come back and put the new ones in but I guess he got delayed doing something else and… Yeah, that’s where you come in.” 

“Alright,” he says with his hand covering his beard, brows furrowed as he opens the glass door and looks around, then nods as he gently closes it. “Where have you got the tiles?”, he asks, and you take his hand, bringing him down to the garage, where stacks of tiles and mortar are ready, left here by Mason's crew. 

“Tell me if you need anything, otherwise see you at—”, you look at your watch, then back up at him, “Twelve?” 

He nods, smiles, and you head back into the house, sitting down in the living room to grade papers while you watch Joel carry the tiles up the stairs, then the mortar, then the necessary tools. You listen to his truck door slamming shut and wish you could hear that sound every day at the same time, the sign that he’s home and you have him to yourself for the night. You never hear Jeremiah’s car door closing when he comes home, only when he leaves and you’re still eating breakfast. 

—

You leave him alone for the morning hours, going through your to-do list, grading papers in the quietness of the living room, hearing a few soft sounds from upstairs. His presence in your house soothes you like a blanket, it lets you focus and get through the assignments you’ve put off grading since Friday. You can still taste him on your lips, can still smell his cologne when you turn your head and brush the tip of your nose along your shoulder. The soft fabric of your sweater absorbed his cologne so quickly. You absorb his touch even faster, you let his heat seep into your skin and warm you. 

Next item on the list, another one you’ve been putting off; a phone call to the store on the other side of town that you and Jeremiah visited and bought a couch from  — one that looked suspiciously small as it was loaded off the truck and turned out to be entirely the wrong size. You were tasked with arranging the return, Jeremiah too irritated to want to do it himself, one of several phone calls you’ve made due to his lack of time and patience. You dial the number from a card you got from the delivery person and wait for the store to pick up, looking at the front and back of the card as you hear the beeps, until a lady picks up and you break the silence that’s filled the house for the last two hours. 

Joel perks up when he hears you from downstairs, freezing while he spreads the mortar over a section of the wall, puts down the trowel and breathes as quietly as he can, soaking up the sound of your voice as you say hello, as you speak to the customer service representative so kindly. He wonders if you’re the one who’s responsible for all of these types of calls in your household, the way he is in his, if you’re the more patient spouse, just like himself, if you’re unlike Gwen who is quick to escalate complaints and never sets foot in the establishment again. 

“Hi!” 

“I’m good, how are you?” 

“Yeah, so, my husband ordered this new couch for his office and we got a two seater instead of a three seater. I don't know how that happened—

“Oh, no, no — it's not your fault, I was just hoping you could help me set up the pickup and dropoff for the new one, yeah.”

“The order number—”

He refocuses, gets back to work, listening to the soothing sounds of your voice from downstairs. He listens to how you thank the person on the other end, how you apologize for the inconvenience. God knows how long it’s been since he heard an apology coming out of anyone’s mouth besides his own. 

You say goodbye and hang up the phone, leaving it on the coffee table as you go to the kitchen to start making lunch. For a moment, you wonder if you should ask Joel if he has any preferences, any likes or dislikes, but just as you consider going up there and asking, you change your mind and step over to the fridge, starting to pull stuff out before plugging in the panini grill. You weren’t planning on anything too interesting for lunch, and you wish you’d prepared for something more complex than a goddamn panini, but it’ll have to do, and you slather balsamic aioli on a few pieces of sourdough, throw on some turkey, sliced tomato, mozzarella and basil before sticking it in the grill and pressing it down, grimacing to yourself a little, hoping he won’t hate it. 

The little light switches from red to green with a click, and you pull the handle up, fish them both out and dump them on a plate before starting the next batch. After pressing the lid down on the next two sandwiches, you step out into the hallway and look up at the staircase as you call to Joel, hoping you don't sound hesitant, “Hey, lunch is ready!” 

He comes downstairs less than a minute later, when you’ve set your plates and two cups of coffee on the dining table and sat down, looking out of the window until you see him in the corner of your eye and turn to face him with a hopeful smile. His brows knit in what looks like concern as he comes up and gestures to the lunch on the other side of the table, “Is this—”

You interrupt him and wave towards yourself, “It’s for you, sit down.” There’s an air of hesitance to him as he pulls his chair out, looking between you and the meal, and you roll your eyes, waving again, come on, come on. It’s just a lunch for God’s sake, not even a special one at that, but he thanks you so sincerely, taking your hand and lightly squeezing it, rubbing his thumb over the inside of your palm.

You try to dismiss it with a wave, pshh, but he insists, and you can’t entirely take in how it feels to have someone truly appreciate the effort you put into cooking for them. It makes the coldness of your husband’s thank you’s sting so much more, the fact that he has never spent a full minute looking at you in awe and thanking you before even taking a bite, never been speechless over a little sandwich you slammed together in five minutes. Enough flattery — you have to firmly insist that Joel start eating before he actually does. 

“First time someone’s made lunch for me in a long time,” he says, rotating his plate around and looking at the cross section of his sandwiches. You have to stop yourself from cracking up at the way he examines his meal, takes a sip of his coffee and nods in approval. 

“Oh?”

“I do all the cooking at home — breakfast, lunch, dinner for me and the girls,” he hesitates a little on the inevitable end of the sentence, “Gwen too but she ain’t really a breakfast person.” 

You nod, interesting, then eat in silence with him for a while, a comfortable silence, listening to the rustling of the leaves outside the kitchen window. It’s a beautiful fall day — the trees in the backyard have turned to burning shades of red and orange, moving slowly in the wind. You look back at him and take a sip of your coffee, the perfect temperature now, taking in the sight of the little creases by his eyes as he looks back at you with curiosity.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Joel? It’s okay if you don’t want to answer, I just didn’t get a lot of information from the school and I— I wanted to understand Ellie a little better, so I was wondering how long she’s been staying with you and your wife. I’ve seen students at other schools stay with their friends’ families for a couple weeks at most, but I mean, you’re going to Ellie’s PTA meeting, all the paperwork gets sent to you specifically, so—”

“Totally fine,” he assures, “She’s been stayin’ with us for about three years. Things were a little rough at her folks’ house, dad wasn't always around and she’s got two younger siblings, much younger siblings, who needed a lot of attention. She essentially had the choice between being overlooked or being a third parent, unfortunately. But she was spending a lot of time at our house at the time — she’d been friends with Sarah for years but I had no idea what was going on until they were both about thirteen.” 

“What happened?”

“Nothin’ really happened per se, but their whole class went on this school trip to Big Bend — you know, the national park?”

“I think— I think so?”, you mumble with your mouth full, eyes shifting back and forth a little. 

“Few hours west,” he says with a wink, and he must be getting lost in your eyes because he sits in silence after that, his story long forgotten as he watches you eat. 

“And then?”

He takes a breath, a sip of his coffee, and then another bite before he continues, “Sarah and Ellie’s class went, and for some reason all the dads were chaperones — us and a couple teachers. If I remember correctly, I think it was some sort of initiative to have the dads a little more involved in student activities cause it was mostly the moms showin’ up to sports and science fairs and all that, but— anyway, Tommy has a son who’s Sarah’s age so he and I were there. Then, one morning, we made pancakes for all the kids, and I guess Ellie’d snuck out the night before and her punishment was to help make breakfast, so she came over and helped us out while the kids were out doing whatever they were gettin’ up to, and all the other dads were watching a game, I guess, in one of the other cabins—”.

Your heart sinks for a reason you really don’t want to acknowledge now, a reason that you’re sure will scare him off and convince him that all you want from him is some sort of pseudo-father, a replacement for the man who you don’t even know well enough to miss. You’ve always been aware of your father’s emotional absence, but it has been an abstract type of absence, one that shape shifts but never latches onto specific instances — not until now, when you can so clearly picture Joel doing the things he never did, being present for Sarah in a way you cannot fully comprehend. It's as if your own father abandoned you, that his presence and absence sort of felt the same, that he was absent even when he sat at the dinner table with you and your mother. 

And now Joel is sitting across from you, having lunch and telling you so lightly about how present he is in his daughter’s life, and in the life of a girl who isn’t even his own but who might as well be by how he takes care of her too, expecting nothing in return. You wish he could take you in as well, to protect you and nurture you. It feels incredibly messed up to feel the desire to be cared for by him as a father while you’re sitting across from him, unable to stop fixating on how handsome he looks, wanting him to fuck you into your mattress until you can’t see straight. Something to keep to yourself, that should never see the light of day. 

“So Ellie came over to our cabin, and we already knew her pretty well but her dad didn’t come along on the trip and she basically told us that he’d left for an extended period of time and that things at home were pretty rough with her siblings. At the time, they were only, jeeze, they couldn't have been more than five and seven? Real young and rowdy, so her mom was stretched pretty thin. She basically asked, like you mentioned, if she could stay with us for a few weeks, just while she had her final exams and all that, but she ended up stayin’, and by the time next school year started, we had a talk and kinda figured out that she felt like she could focus better by staying with us during the week and going home over the weekend. Now she goes back every couple weekends but she’s mostly with us.” 

You look at Joel with a frown marring your brows, and he smiles while he tilts his head — “What?” 

“You made pancakes for all the kids? You and Tommy?”

He chuckles carefully and leans over the table, resting his elbows on the surface, the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to show his forearms, decorated with a few specks of mortar from his work, “That’s what you got from that whole story?” 

“Yeah, kinda..”, you admit, trying to fight the urge to spill your issues with your own dad all over the dining table, the want to tell him that you wish your own father was like Joel — an unhinged and likely very fucked up thing to say to someone you’ve had sex with. But when you look up at him, at how intently he looks back at you, how he smiles in genuine curiosity and interest, in a wish to understand you, you can’t hold it in anymore. 

“My dad would never do that,” you mutter and pick at the last half of your panini, scratching the little grill marks on the top, “He’d be one of the dads watching the game and then he’d feel like he’d done a year’s worth of bonding. He’d probably brag to my mom, saying we had such a good time together and she’d believe him, then whenever I’d ask him to do something together, he’d be all ‘oh, well, we just spent that entire weekend together recently’, even if it was months later. I can’t remember the last time we did anything together, even when I used to go home and visit.” You force a laugh, but Joel sees through it, and his face turns serious, a frown marking the space between his brows while your face goes softer, eyes avoiding his, your cheek resting on your palm while you look down. 

“Are you in contact with your parents?” 

“Not really… Not since I moved here.” 

“That’s too bad,” he says, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You shrug and pick up your sandwich, looking up again to see him taking your other hand in his and brushing his thumb over the top of it, not wanting to push. You can feel his concern, his want to ask more questions conflicting with the space he wants to give you. 

“Can I ask you a personal question now, since you asked me one before?”

“Go ahead,” you smile carefully, looking at how he touches you so gently, how he rubs the pad of his thumb carefully over your skin, soothing you. 

“Why did you become a guidance counselor?,” he asks, “I know you said someone at the school got canned but you already had the education, so I was curious.” 

You laugh through your nose for some reason, then let your eyes trace up his chest, his neck, all the way to his face, landing on his eyes. “Not every Ellie has a Joel,” you shrug, “Some of these kids don’t have anyone to take them in or help them, so I guess I wanted to be there for students who were struggling with academics or having trouble at home, you know? I already knew I wanted to be a teacher, and I was almost halfway done with my degree, then I had an academic advisor suggest I do this double major in education and school psychology, bla bla, anyway,” you wave dismissively with the hand that isn’t held in his clutch, “Now I’m finally doing both.. For a long time I was just teaching part time, but.. Now I work, I don’t know, seventy five percent, I guess.” 

“Working part time seems nice,” he muses, and you wish you felt the same way. His eyes narrow and his expression changes, grows more serious somehow. “Or?”, he tilts his head, picking up on what you wish he didn’t, feeling his focus and attention wrap around you tightly like vines creeping up your body, unable to get away but not desiring to either, needing to be seen and yet wanting to hide. 

“Uhh,” you clear your throat, avoiding the question or buying time or generally looking for any way not to bring up your husband, then immediately realizing you’ve backed yourself into a corner. “Well, Jeremiah didn’t really want me to work, so to speak, or— it’s not that he wanted me not to work, he just… It was more important for him that the house was clean and there was dinner on the table when he came home from work, so that’s all I did for a couple months, but then that got old fast and I had to convince him that I could do all that and work at the same time.”

“Why doesn’t he help you?”, Joel asks, feeling a sort of resentment that you both seem to carry towards your spouses, a resentment that is inevitably followed by guilt and self-admonishment for feeling that way towards someone he’s made a lifelong commitment to. 

“He works a lot,” you say, voice defeated. 

“So do I,” he scoffs, “And I still do all that — still do all the chores, all the cooking, all the homework help. Work ain’t an excuse for him not to help out. Even if he works late, there’s the weekend, he could do all the laundry or clean, that shouldn’t fall on you, you’re not his maid.” 

“Stop turning me on,” you say with a slight laugh, and he chuckles while he rolls his eyes, taking your other hand too, turning both over and smoothing his thumbs over your palms. 

“That’s all it takes? A little vacuuming and a roasted chicken?” 

“Yeah, pretty much — Jeremiah can barely make a fucking Hot Pocket.” 

He laughs at that, and you know he’s shaking his head in disapproval. It boggles your mind to think about how much you seem to have in common with this man, who is nothing like your husband and nothing like your father and nothing like any man you’ve ever met. 

“Another personal question,” you say, seeking permission in his eyes before you ask, “What would you do if Sarah moved really far away from you? Like.. Several hours on a plane type of far away.” 

“I’d miss her, I’d make her promise to call me here and there, but… I’d let her go, let her live her life.” 

“What if— what if she moved somewhere for someone, and you didn’t like the person she was with?” 

He shrugs, tilts his head side to side in contemplation and looks around. “I don’t know what I would do, it’s hard to say… I can’t imagine I’d be very happy but I’d try to understand and I’d tell her I’m here if she needs me,” he admits, and thinks for a moment before he redirects his attention back to you, softening his voice, “Why are you askin’ me this?” 

“Isn’t that obvious?” 

“You don’t wanna be here, do you?” 

“What do you mean by here? You mean the marriage that doesn’t feel like a marriage, the house where I own nothing or the state I’d never been to before I moved here for someone who would never move for me?” 

The silence between you is deafening, your eye contact intense. “Why did you marry him?”, Joel asks, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper. He has spent the last weeks looking for an answer to that very question, unaware that you’ve been asking yourself the same for two years. 

“Long story short, I thought that if I married him, he couldn’t leave me. He made a lot of promises back then, said that if I moved here with him for this job he was offered, I’d be taken care of, and at the time I thought it was a good idea. I was tired, exhausted from school and work… I worked my ass off, I have no student loans or anything. I’d been working since high school, I saved up for, like, three years then got my piece of shit Honda Civic that’s out there in the driveway. I got that seven years ago, I’ve paid for everything myself except this fucking house.

But anyway, by the time I graduated college, I was just burnt out and I got this big sparkly promise of a cushy life in a nice sunny state, and all I asked in return was that we get married, so I could be sure he wouldn’t pick up and leave me somewhere I didn’t know anyone. But now, it— it feels like he did. It feels even worse, actually, cause not only am I alone but he broke that promise in so many other ways.”

Joel wants to ask how, so badly. He wants to know everything there is to know about you in this world, and even though any intimate details about your marriage would make him sick to his stomach, he’s consumed with the need to know. But for now, he thinks better of it. “You don’t have to be alone anymore, if you don’t want to,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to his face and kissing the tips of your fingers while you feel a flash of heat across your cheeks, too scared to smile and hoping your eyes can convey what you can’t express. 

“What about your marriage?”, you say, voice a little shaky while you feel the press of his lips to your skin, and the silence in the room lets you hear the gentle scratching of your nails against his mustache. 

“Do I seem happy in my marriage?”, he raises an eyebrow, “Does it seem like my wife wants me the way you do?” 

“No.” 

“Then maybe we can be alone together.”

— 

Joel gets back to work after clearing his plate, waiting for you to clear your own, and thanking you for lunch with words and kisses and the touch of his fingers down your spine while you stand on the very tips of your toes to wrap your arms around his neck. You wish you could make him lunch every day. 

You clean the kitchen and listen to the radio, wondering if he can hear it from upstairs. The way he thanked you for lunch could make you cry — how it warmed your heart to see him enjoying what you made him, insisting you were full so you could feed him the last little piece of your sandwich just to feel what it would be like to share, then sending him upstairs with a second cup of coffee. You’re not unhappy with the concept of being married, of being tied to someone legally and financially and emotionally for the rest of your life, and if you imagine that you and Joel are the ones living in this house, that you have lunch together every day and that the rings you wear were exchanged between the two of you, you can’t imagine a better life for yourself. 

Another hour goes by, cleaning and putting on the laundry, dusting and mopping the floor, and you find yourself both bored and curious about what Joel is doing. He hasn’t left the bathroom since he went back up, clearly focused by the scraping sounds you hear from the hallway, so you put the mop back into the closet and slide over on your socks, appearing in the doorway with your sleeves covering your hands and one fuzzy socked foot on top of the other. “Hey,” you say carefully, pursing your lips to hide your smile at seeing him again. 

“Hey,” he says back, “What’s up?” 

“Just bored, wanted to know what you were doing,” you shrug, looking and sounding like a little girl, talking in a voice that is only for him, standing there with big eyes but feeling small in the presence of a man who seems to know how to do everything, “You mind if I watch?” 

“Go ahead, baby,” he says and picks up a tile before placing it on the wall, “Not very interesting to watch but, by all means—”. 

You coo to him as you sit down on the floor, next to the bathtub, folding your arms over the edge, resting your chin on them, pulling your legs in under yourself and watching him work. The muscles in his arm flex under his t-shirt as he spreads the light colored mortar over a section of the wall, his flannel slung over the edge of the bathtub now, close enough for you to breathe in his scent on every inhale, intoxicating whiffs of his cologne after it has developed on his skin and in the fabric of his clothing. You watch his hand, how it grips the trowel, the thick veins bulging out of his skin, the reflection of the lights bouncing off his wedding band. You hear his breathing, even and deep, just a tiny little bit labored if you listen closely enough. He looks back at you, and you can see his lips moving but you don’t register a word. “What?”, you mumble as you snap out of your haze. 

“Are you entertained?”, he asks again, and you nod with a smile, digging your face further into the soft sleeves of your sweater covering your arms. “Want me to tell you what I’m doing?” 

Another nod, and he clears his throat before he tells you. “This stuff is called mortar, okay? Makes the tiles stick to the wall,” he scoops it up and spreads it over the wall, then picks up one of the little tiles, and you suddenly feel terrible for picking such an intricate design for your massive shower. He’s been in here for hours, prepping the wall and aligning all the tiles and the stones that go inside the wall shelf. It’s turning out so beautifully, and you admire it from outside the glass cabinet, nodding when he tells you how he aligns the stones and puts in the levels. You don’t understand much of what he says but you watch him intently, trying to focus on the calming sound of his voice. 

Maybe you could go to work with him every day and just watch him build stuff, watch him install drywall or set tiles or anything else he might find himself doing on a regular day. Watching him is calming, entertaining in a strange way, satisfying as you see the tiling come together just the way you imagined. You’ll never trust anyone else to build anything else for you, other than Joel, now that you’ve seen how meticulously he works, how little mess he makes as he reaches the far corner of the shower, spreading the mortar and sticking the tiles on the wall and on the floor. 

He groans a little as he crouches down to scoop up more of the gray paste, then stands to his full height and reaches the top of the wall, barely lifting his arm. There are gray marks, little specks of mortar, on his work pants and his black t-shirt, and he has never looked better in your eyes. He’s clearly worn them a lot, the color is all faded where they sit tightly over his quads, and you can tell there’s stuff in the pockets on the side. You want to stick your fingers into them and wiggle around to see what’s in there until inevitably swats your hand away. 

“I gotta go pick up some supplies,” he says after finishing the stone arrangement inside the shelf where you always keep your shampoo, “Shower’s a little bigger than I expected so I don’t think there’s enough grout —​​ shouldn't be more than twenty minutes.” He helps you up from where you’re sitting and you look at the dried mortar on his hands, then look into his eyes and thank him. Of course, he whispers and wraps his arms around you, in this shower where you wish he would hold you up against the tiles and fuck you under the waterfall from above. He sneaks a hand under the back of your sweater, brushing the rough calluses of his palm over your skin, pushing you closer to himself, his other hand under your chin to angle your face up — still not tall enough to reach his face until he leans down and kisses you. 

Your nipples go tight and stiff against the top of his stomach as you wrap your arms around his middle, and he notices so easily, he notices every little change in your body, and he cups the back of your head, licks across your tongue and shamelessly lets his cock harden against you. You moan when he bites your lip and he pulls away with a heavy exhale, running his thumb across your wet bottom lip. 

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” he whispers, leans in for another kiss, then lets go. 

—

You close the door after him and head upstairs to get a hair tie, ready to get started on another stack of papers waiting to be graded, when you spot Joel’s flannel still hanging over the edge of the tub. Picking it up, you hold it to your nose and inhale deeply, burying your face in the fabric and filling your lungs with his scent. It makes your eyes slide back, a smile tug at your lips, and your damp panties cling to your center, still feeling hot and wet from the way he held you earlier, the way he growled and sucked on your tongue. 

A few more whiffs, trying to muster up the will to fold it and put it on the countertop, but you can’t find it in yourself to put it away, and you slip your arms into it instead. The sleeves hang limply from your hands and you roll them up as you head downstairs, feeling the warmth of the soft fabric draping over your torso. 

It is incredibly distracting to sit at the dining table, surrounded by Joel's scent and the light smell of his sweat from the underarms of his flannel, the sign that he probably wore this shirt another day and tossed it over the back of a chair at night, not quite dirty and not quite clean. You try to shift around in the chair and ignore how sensitive your clit feels, aching and in need of attention, his attention, your body reminded of the effect he has on you. Trying to ignore it, your attention is forcefully directed back to the paper in front of you, taking in sentence by sentence, correcting slowly and keeping Joel at the periphery of your mind.  

You look over at the time to see that twenty minutes have gone by, then thirty, and when forty five have elapsed, you figure that something has come up and that he won’t be coming back, and decide to take a well deserved break from grading to relax and take care of the persistent, aching need you’ve been fighting since Joel pinned you against the wall many hours ago. Your pencil is tossed on the table and you run upstairs to start running the bath, then head into your closet, all the way to the very back, where you pull out your box of toys and select one made of glass, not nearly as thick as what you would like to have inside you, but just as warm after submersion into a hot bath. 

The text messages from Joel on your cell phone, left on the dining table, go unnoticed while you strip off all of your clothes and dim the lights as the water fills up, throwing your outfit to the other side of the bathroom before you dip your toes in, gradually getting used to the heat before you sit down, lay back and and start to brush your fingers over your nipples. 

“Hey, sorry I was a little longer, had to help Tommy unload a truck. Be there in 10.”

You slip the slightly heated glass toy in through your opening, rolling your head back at the sensation of being filled, slowly pulling it out and pushing it back in, feeling the little bumps on its surface rubbing against your walls. The pads of your fingers make contact with your clit, gently start to rub, making you moan and wish so desperately that Joel was there to hear it, wanting and needing his touch, his attention, his love. 

“Assuming you’re still busy grading papers. I’ll just let myself in if that’s OK?”

You fuck yourself slowly, letting go of your clit when the sensation builds too high, getting too close to your release, wanting to prolong the feeling of how Joel arouses you. The subtle waves of the bathwater crash against your skin, soothing and warm, making you close your eyes, and when you open them up again, you see him in the doorway, frozen still, looking at you while his chest heaves. 

“You can come in, it’s fine,” you say as your eyes trail down to his pants, seeing his erection straining the fabric, “You can watch too, if you want, it’s nothing you haven’t seen already. Just being around you all day… It made me a little tense, you could say, started feeling a bit needy.” He slowly puts the container of grout on the floor, but stays where he is, staring at the glass in the water, disappearing into your center and making your hips wind, legs spread with one foot on the edge where the tub meets the wall and the other dangling over the side. You moan for him when the tip of the toy nudges into a particularly sensitive spot, and you watch his eyes narrowing, his hand flexing while the other comes to the back of his neck. 

After a silence filled with nothing but your moans and the sounds of his heavy breathing, he asks in a low voice, “Do you have sex with your husband?” 

You give him a sly smile and shake your head, not anymore, and he continues to look at how you rub your clit, how your hips shift in response to the way you change the movement of your wrist, gliding the toy in and out of you. Last time he saw a woman touching herself like this, outside of occasional porn on the internet, was before he met his wife, many years ago.

The mental image of that one night stand in his early twenties has been conjured up in his mind many times, fodder for the times he’s gotten off on his own, needing the mental image of something erotic, of a woman’s pleasure, uninterrupted and happily shown off. She gave him a show that night, made herself come in front of his eyes before he joined her, and he wondered if he would ever get to see such a thing again. Now he’s standing here, watching you make yourself feel good, with his cock so hard it hurts, and he cannot, for the life of him, understand how a man could possibly not want to have you like that. 

“Who does he fuck then?”, Joel asks.

You don’t even flinch as you answer, “Well, there's one named Bianca and one I believe is named Anastasia.” 

He shakes his head, confused and angry and jealous and every other emotion he might feel at the thought of another man having access to you in this way and yet taking you for granted. His curiosity gets the best of him, envy and jealousy driving his words, “When was the last time you slept with him?” 

The motion of your hands still as you take a second to think. “Around his twenty-eighth birthday, so… Probably a little over two years ago?”  

A few moments of silence ensue, a swallow passing through his throat as he sears the image of you into his mind for later reference. He should’ve been able to tell from that first night, that your desperation was not simply the result of a dry spell, that you were deprived of intimacy the same way he was and still is, driving him towards you with no abandon and no consideration for consequences. He sees you get closer and quickly retract your hand, sensing how well you know your own body, and he can’t help the words as they tumble out of him again, his voice hoarse and his cock throbbing, “So you take care of yourself?”

You smile again, nodding to invite him into your space, “I take very good care of myself. I get massages, not the dirty kind, I take baths, I masturbate, I have toys. I don’t need my husband’s useless dick when I have myself. He keeps himself entertained, and so do I.” He finally comes over then, carefully stepping in and making his way across the dark tiles of the bathroom, over to the bath he kneels in front of. He looks at you as he submerges his hand and finds yours, nudging it away gently to grasp the end of the glass and direct its movements, angling it in a way you cannot, reaching a spot only he has ever felt.  

“Do you miss it?”, he asks, rotating the toy as he slides it out slowly, then pushes it back in, reaching his other hand into the water to return your fingers to your clit. 

“Sex?” 

“Mhm.” 

You watch how his eyes shift as you moan, and you giggle as you answer his question. “I only miss having deeply intimate sex with someone who knows what they're doing,” you tell him, “Like your sex, I liked that — that's worth missing.” 

He makes a rough sound and clears his throat, reaching his free hand down to palm at the bulge in his pants, needing just a sliver of friction to relieve the ache, “What did you like about it?” 

“I liked how you made me feel, how you took care of me. I like how gently you touched me but how firm you were at the same time. It felt safe and intimate and erotic, I could tell you were enjoying yourself too. I like that you don't shave, I like your scent, around your neck and chest, around your cock. I like the smell of your sweat. You're a very masculine man, you know that?” 

Joel nods subtly, feeling a shy heat across his chest, beginning to understand it himself now, as he observes the difference between your hands, the marks and small scars on his own, from age and work and manual labor, so rough compared to your delicate fingers and long nails, shining under the water. “How does it feel?”, he asks, starting to work at the buttons and zippers above his crotch with one hand, unable to hold back any longer. 

“Good,” you purr, “Better with your eyes on me… You wanna watch me come?” 

“Are you close?”, he undoes his zipper and pushes the band of his boxers down, freeing his hard, leaking cock from the confines of his clothing and wrapping his hand around the wet tip, shuddering when he begins to stroke it slowly and sees how you watch him, nodding as you moan, rubbing your clit faster and tilting your hips up to let him fill you more deeply.

“Come for me then,” he murmurs, speeding up the movement of the bumpy glass inside of you, and he could lose it from the sound of you moaning his name while you climax, throwing your head back and letting out the loud, breathy moans he knew you held back in that stranger’s bed. His strokes get faster, squeezing around his shaft as he drags his palm along his erection, precome seeping out from his slit and spilling down to his fingers. 

“How about you?”, you ask, feeling the waves of your orgasm beginning to taper off, enjoying the internal sensitivity brought on by your climax, “Do you fuck your wife?” 

“Rarely,” he huffs, completely uninterested in thinking about her now, about her lack of interest in him that he has tried to understand, tried to mediate and work around but never seems to change. The rejection he has faced for the past year doesn’t matter now, it doesn’t even sting, now that he has you in his hands again, knowing it is only a matter of minutes before he’s inside of you again — the sensation he has missed and yearned for and needed for months. 

You sit up, gently circling his wrist to pull the toy out of you and let it fall to the bottom of the tub with a clinking sound, then push his own hand away from his dick, though you could watch him stroke himself for hours. “Does she suck your cock?”, you ask, wrapping your much smaller fingers around his shaft and gently moving up and down, watching the subtle twitches under his skin from your touch. 

He’s simultaneously thrown off and aroused by your vulgarity, rubbing the back of his neck as he tells you that he can’t remember the last time she did, not daring to say any more. His eyes trace a droplet of water sliding down your chest as the cold air makes your nipples harden, goosebumps spreading across the skin of your chest, your breasts tightening. You give a few light licks to his tip, thinking back on how he groaned and thrust his hips the only time you ever had him in your mouth, then ask him, while you kiss around the crown of his head, “Do you like it?”

He nods, and almost sounds reluctant to admit that yes, he does, he does like it, he enjoys the sight of plush lips wrapped around his cock, the feeling of a soft, wet tongue running along his underside, fisting his hand in her hair and gently fucking his pretty girl’s face — who wouldn’t? 

“What do you do if you dont fuck your wife?” 

“Jerk off, I guess,” he shrugs, huffing a laugh and watching the sparkle of your nails as they move along his length. 

“Do you watch porn?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“What do you watch?”, you gently suck on his tip, lick his frenulum and stroke his base, thread your fingers through the thick hair at his root and splay your hand across his pelvis, “Describe it to me.” 

“Well, I, uh—”,  he clears his throat and wraps your hair around his hand while you take him into your mouth, letting him slide in and out at his desired pace, swallowing around his head and gagging just enough to make a bead of precome drip down your throat, “I only watch stuff where the woman is enjoying herself, so I guess— I guess I watch her.” 

You let his tip rest on your bottom lip as you look up at him, “And what does the guy do to make her feel good?” 

“The same stuff we did.”

You smile at that, “That's the best sex I've ever had, you know.”  

“Really?” 

Mhmm, you purr before taking him into your throat again, feeling his other hand come to the back of your neck, pulling your face close to him and pushing you back, watching his spit slick shaft glide out through your lips and moaning at the sight of your hand as it swivels around his thickness. The diamond on your finger catches the light as your wrist moves, up and down. You don't take it off, you let the gold band heat up from the friction between you. His eyes flutter closed, his head tips back, his breaths heave. He comes back to himself in a moment of clarity and looks down at you, loosens the grip of his hands and tilts your chin up, the tip of his cock coming to rest on your wet lips again. “Do you ever feel like you want something you can't have?”, he asks, and you nod in response, smirking and raising your brows as if it’s a trick question. 

“Don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” he concedes, forcing your mouth open to slide his head back in, growling when it hits the very back of your throat and you start to drool, “I want you and I can't really have you — I shouldn’t have you.” 

Keeping him in your mouth, licking and sucking him, you reach over and unplug the drain, letting the water start to lower as you urge him to fuck your face just a little more, until you swallow more of his precome and you let him slip out, kissing the underside of his head before you stand up and grab your robe off the hook on the wall. You wrap it around yourself, let it sit below your shoulders as Joel stands up and helps you step out of the tub. Holding the robe closed with one hand, you reach the other up to his face, tracing your nails down his nose, his cheeks, his lips as you ask him, “Who said you can't have me?” 

He takes your hand from his face and threads his fingers between yours, feeling both of your rings scraping against each other. “It’s true that you shouldn't — I shouldn't want you either — but you can have me,” you whisper, and pull on his hand as you turn and step backwards towards the counter, letting go of his hand, discarding the plush robe onto the floor, then hopping up on the counter and spreading your legs, planting both feet on either side of you and leaning back onto your hands — his to do with as he pleases, soft and wet and ready for him. “You can have me right now,” you run your fingers up and down your folds, spreading them apart and coating your fingertips with your slick, “And I know you want to, I know we’ve both waited for this for months, so put us both out of our misery and fuck me.” 

He swallows, nods, then closes the distance between you in silence, and although he knows he won’t last long, he braces himself and slides the tip of his cock up and down your slit, scrunching his face at the sound of your whimpers, and when he cannot hold it anymore, when he catches at your opening and feels you start to suck him in, he sinks into you fully, a shared gasp filling the air before you grab the back of his neck and pull him in so that your foreheads touch, and you can both look down at how you take him, how you stretch around him and make space for him inside. Your other hand comes between your legs, the pads of your fingers circling your clit, making you tense up around him while he holds onto your hips and caresses your skin with his thumbs. 

“Let me watch you come,” he whispers, looking into your eyes now, bending his knees to fuck up into you a little deeper and gazing at your eyes as they slide to the back of your head. Your fingers move faster, in firmer circles, the heavy weight of his cock stretching you open, filling you, reaching something so tender and sensitive inside of you that you can’t stop the stream of warm liquid that squirts out of you while he fucks you, soaking the bottom of his t-shirt and his groin while he praises you, while he says you’re being a good girl, such a good girl, just for him. 

“That's it, just like that, baby, you feel that?” he coos, holding you still by his grasp on your hips, fucking into you deeper now, another wet stream dripping down his crotch and all over his boxers and his pants, more of your come squirting out between your fingers as you touch yourself and moan for him, daddy, daddy, begging him for more. He won’t last much longer, the rough moans ripping from his throat making you tighten and tense, trying to squirm away from the battering of his cock into your g-spot, so intense you can’t think, all senses morphed into a singular focus on him, him, nothing but him. 

He wants to come inside you, wants to fill you and mark you the only way he can, but reality pulls him back harshly by the scruff of his neck, yanked away like a rabid dog, and he pulls out of you, slots his cock between your folds and comes all over your stomach, coating your skin with ropes of his semen, warm and runny as they slide down your damp skin, crashing his lips with yours and kissing you with a hunger and ferocity he thought he might have released over your belly, but instead rages inside of him like an out of control fire, pushing his tongue into your mouth and groaning at the taste of your saliva. 

Breathing heavily, refusing to move, softening inside your cunt, he reaches a hand up to smush your cheeks together, forcing you to look into his eyes, his beautiful, soft, brown eyes. He stares at you, barely blinking as he holds your attention, and through desperate breaths, he confesses to you, panting as he tells you, “I’m not just fucking you, okay? This ain't just sex. I have real, serious, deep feelings for you.” He looks between your eyes, tilts your face up a little further and moves his hand from your hip to your waist, “I know it's premature but I can't help it — I can't, I think about you constantly, I dream about you, I can't get you off my mind. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever.” 

“I know, baby,” you whisper back, tugging at his thick curls, then scrape your nails down the back of his neck and under the collar of his shirt, scratching his skin up and down, back and forth, in slow circles. You let him kiss you once more, suck in his bottom lip and run your tongue along it, then pull back to lean your forehead into his, “I feel the same way about you, Joel. I’ve waited for you to come and find me, to remind me that I’m yours again... As if I could ever forget.” 

Twenty minutes must go by on the bathroom counter, between kisses and whispers, between him tracing his fingertips up and down your spine and you nuzzling your face into his neck. You’ve never been in love before, not until now, when you would give anything, do anything, say anything, to spend the rest of the night with him, the rest of the week and the month and the year. You never want him to leave, but you know his family is waiting for him, and although his wife might not be awaiting his arrival, you know his daughters are, and you would never want to take him away from them. 

They need him, but you need him too, in a way you’ve never needed anyone, and you want to relinquish some of your control, over yourself and your life and your body, to him. You want to give it over, let him take care of you and decide what’s best for you. There is a deep trust between you, an understanding and a kindness you have never felt. When he kisses up along the side of your neck, when you feel him smile from the way he makes you giggle, you feel like you’re home. 

But he has to go, he has to tuck himself back into his pants, help you down from the counter, clean you up and dress you in your clothes. He has to dry off his wet shirt and look at the time, then tell you he’ll be back tomorrow at the same time to finish the grout, hopefully seeing you in the door before you head to work in the morning. 

And when you’ve said your goodbyes, when you’ve closed the door behind him and gotten dinner started, when you’ve stared out of the kitchen window and wondered what on earth you’re gonna do about being in love with a married man, a father, a man who is much too old for you — a text message from him pops up on your phone screen. 

“No,” you sighed, turning your head against the pillow so your voice wasn’t muffled anymore. “Not going to make you get up on your own. Just do me a favor and start the coffee?” 

He laughed again. 

“Whatever you say, Beautiful.” 

You listened to Joel getting dressed for a moment before you forced yourself to get out of the warm, comfortable bed. 

You loved Thanksgiving with the Millers. So many traditions, so many delicious foods, so many people you loved who loved you back. But the smoked turkey thing was new and, as it turned out, you’d been a lot more excited about it in theory than in practice. Morning sex was not an option when your boyfriend needed to be cooking before 8 a.m. Joel had gotten you some cute festive pajamas, at least - not that he ever left your clothes on long once you were in bed - and you pulled on the orange plaid pants and matching thermal before toying with your hair enough that it wasn’t a disaster and shuffling to the kitchen. 

The coffee pot’s brew cycle was just sputtering to an end when you got there and you pulled down a mug, pouring yourself a big cup and adding Irish cream before making Joel a cup of his own. You glanced at the clock. 7:18 a.m. Joel was never allowed to smoke a turkey again, you decided. Being up this early on Thanksgiving was a bridge too far. 

“You look exhausted,” Joel laughed as you squinted against the morning light. 

“You’d be exhausted, too, if you’d gone out with Sarah and her high school friends last night,” you groaned, passing him his favorite chipped mug, the one with an owl on it. “I swear, I feel like I’m still in my 20s and then I go bar hopping…”

You made your way over to a lounge chair by the pool and plopped down on it, taking a long sip of coffee. As the caffeine settled over you, you actually opened your eyes and took in the golden fall morning, the sun reflecting off the pool, the crisp air, the smell of wood chips as Joel got the smoker running, the outline of your boyfriend’s huge cock clearly visible through his gray sweatpants. 

You damn near choked on your mouthful of coffee when you noticed it, shooting up from the lounge chair coughing and sputtering. Joel frowned, watching you. 

“You alright over there?” He asked. 

“Oh I’m fucking great,” you coughed, beating on your chest a bit to get the rest of the coffee down. “You’re getting changed before Sarah comes over, right?” 

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” his frown deepened. “She’s bringing cinnamon rolls over in…” he glanced at his watch. “‘Bout an hour or so. Was just gonna wear this until closer to dinner. Why?” 

“Because, babe, I’m pretty sure I can tell from here whether or not you’re circumcised and that’s not because I had your cock in my mouth last night.” 

Joel’s eyes went wide and he looked down before looking over at you again. 

“They’re just sweatpants, baby.” 

You snorted. 

“They’re gray sweatpants,” you replied. “Those are an entirely different animal.” 

Joel’s frown deepened. 

“What? Why?” He asked. “They’re… they’re sweatpants!” 

“You really don’t know this?” You laughed a little. He shrugged, still looking at you like you were just a bit crazy. “Oh, babe…” 

You set your cup of coffee down and went over to him, looking him up and down. 

Yeah, you got to see Joel every day. You lived together, after all, and moving in together hadn’t exactly lessened your sex drives. The only day you hadn’t fucked in recent memory was when you had a stomach flu and you were too sick to have anything going into you, including Joel. But you still loved to look at him, at his shaggy, graying hair; at his soft, brown eyes; at his strong, broad chest. Even without the… advantageous sweatpants, you’d been enjoying the view. He might have been in a threadbare Texas Longhorns shirt that was probably the same age as Sarah he managed to look fucking gorgeous in it, the shoulders stretched a little tight and the sleeves a bit snug on his thick biceps, the outline of his soft stomach just visible through the drape of the fabric. 

“Let me demonstrate,” you said, locking your eyes on his and reaching down to trace over his cock through the fabric, starting at his tip with the lightest pressure. He gasped softly when you made contact with him and you smiled ever so slightly. “I can tell your head starts right here…” He moaned a little and you ran your fingers down to the ridge of him, tracing back and forth over the flare of his tip. “And that it ends right here.” 

“Fuck, beautiful…” 

You smiled and moved lower, down his shaft. 

“Can tell just how big you are,” you said, voice breathy. He moaned and you kept going until you were at the base of him, tracing him there, too, before wrapping your hand around him as best you could with the fabric between you, starting to stroke him. He whimpered, dropping his head to your shoulder. “And I can tell that you’re getting hard…” 

“Not giving me much choice in that, Beautiful,” he groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ…” 

You took your hand back. 

“But you’ve got a bird to smoke so…” 

You turned to go grab your coffee again, smirking once your back was to him. But Joel reached out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you back into him with a needy grunt. 

“Don’t know where you think you’re goin’…” he growled, pulling you tight against him, so tight you could feel his hardening length on your stomach. 

“Me?” You said, feigning innocence. “I just don’t want to be in the way of the chef…” 

“Shoulda thought of that sooner,” he kissed you firmly, desperately, his tongue opening your mouth and sliding inside. You kissed him back until he pulled away from you, breathless. “Gotta make this quick…” 

He took your hand and pulled you in the house and you laughed as he started tugging at your shirt the second you were in from the cool morning air. He tossed it on the couch and his mouth was almost immediately on your breast, sucking and licking at you as he maneuvered you back toward the couch. He pushed your pants and panties down as he did and you stepped out of them, leaving them in a pile on the floor. You pulled at Joel’s shirt and he almost reluctantly pulled his lips from you as you exposed his chest. He nudged you down onto the couch so you were sitting on the middle cushion and he spread your legs wide before shoving his pants to the floor.

Joel knelt between your thighs and hooked his hands in the crease of your knees, pulling your ass to the edge of the cushion as you let out a surprised yelp. He notched his head against your dripping hole and took hold of your thighs before thrusting fully into you in one sharp, firm motion. 

“Fuck!” You moaned, the stretch of him burning in the most satisfying way. 

“This what you were tryin’ to get me to do?” He panted as he fucked into you, fingers sinking into your flesh. “Tryin’ to get me to fuck you silly? That it?” 

“Fuck, yes!” You groaned and he slid one hand to your lower stomach, his thumb finding your clit as fingers spread wide over your skin. He pressed down on you and the sensation of him filling you grew impossibly stronger. You could feel his hand pushing on where his cock was opening you and your body was already getting tight and hot and needy. “Fuck, Joel, holy shit…” 

“Gonna fill you up real good, Beautiful,” his voice was strained. “Leave you so fuckin’ full of me, make you feel it all day.” 

You moaned at his words, at his thumb working you, at the slide of his thick, heavy cock as he pushed deep into you. 

“I’m gonna come, Joel,” you panted, all but squirming below his touch. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna…” 

“Do it,” he fucked into you even harder. “Come for me, come on my cock, want you to milk this cock, give it to me, Beautiful, fucking come for me.” 

You obeyed, your hand flying to Joel’s forearm and digging your nails into him as your pussy fluttered and pulsed over him. 

“There she is,” he fucked you through it. “Jesus Christ, feel so fuckin’ good, gonna fill you up Baby, leave you so full…” 

He pressed deep, to the very end of you and you felt him spill deep inside you, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he filled you with rope after rope of his come. 

“Fuck,” he moaned as your orgasms both ended and he collapsed onto you, his head on your chest as you both panted for breath. You scratched your fingers through his hair and you kissed the top of his head, breathing in the fresh, clean smell of him that was now tinged with sex. 

After a moment he sat up enough to kiss you deeply as he pulled himself out of you and he got to his feet. He went to the bathroom and came back with a washcloth, gently cleaning your messy slit. 

“Just because I probably shouldn’t say this around your entire family, can I say that I’m thankful for your dick?” You teased.

Joel laughed, shaking his head. 

“I’m just thankful for you,” he said, leaning over and kissing you. “Pussy’s a bonus.” 

He passed you your clothes before gathering his own. He put on his shirt and underwear but tossed his sweatpants over his arm before heading back toward the bedroom. 

“What…” you began, but he cut you off. 

“Clearly can’t trust you around the gray sweatpants,” he teased. “Better change before you got me worried about a different kind of stuffing…” 

You groaned as you pulled on your shirt. 

“Oh shit, I forgot, you still have to actually get the turkey in the smoker!” 

He laughed. 

“Don’t worry, Beautiful,” he said. “Think that was worth dinner starting a bit late. Might have to make it a new Thanksgiving Day tradition.” 

You laughed, too.