𝓁ℴ𝓁𝒾𝓉𝒶

The dining room was filled with nothing but laughs and banter, a usual night in mid-July for your family: your mom gossiping and nudging her friend with her elbow, your dad’s laugh coming out in short bursts each time Beau said something that made him laugh a little too hard, and you sat at the end of the table, taking slow bites of your food.

You smiled along when you caught onto a joke, or when your dad mentioned you in a stupid story he promised he’d never tell again, but you were mostly distracted by him; Beau Arlen.

The head sheriff in your small town, the town’s gentle giant to put it easily. Kindest, sweetest man on earth wrapped in canvas jackets, cowboy boots, and an out-of-place Texan accent. Your dad’s best friend, who also adored you just as much–two different types of attraction here, and that’s what ate away at you. How could he ever see you like that?

He’s looking at you in awe; this grown woman who works her ass off, doing shifts at the drive-in late at night when she should be hanging out with her friends, and she can now ride a bike with two wheels and doesn’t need Beau’s hands on her shoulders, helping her get along the road. She’s grown up; she’s smart, and she has a good head on her shoulders, and that was enough for him.

You’re looking at Beau differently, though. The tick in his jaw when he scoffs at your dad’s jab, the stray hair falling from his usual gelled hair, dipping down to his forehead, the green eyes that seem to constantly hit the sunlight drooling in through the window above the sink, his hand dwarfing the beer bottle in his hands, the fingertips that glide over it when he sets it down, his scruff he’s been growing out ever since summer started, and the way he looks at you. That small smile he cracks, the way his teeth almost show, but the crinkles by his eyes do. And you want it, him, Beau Arlen. 

“Can you do the dishes tonight, honey?” your mom asks, pulling you out of your Beau-induced daze. “Your dad and Beau are gonna be working on the truck in the driveway; wouldn’t mind some help with the plates, I’m gonna be in the backyard…”

“Yeah… yeah, of course,” you mumble, nodding, glancing back at Beau. “I can do it all, don’t worry,” you smile, slowly standing up from the table and grabbing your own plate first.

You collect your plate first, then you grab your mother’s, her friend’s, your dad’s, and then you reach for Beau’s. He looks up at you with a smile, a quiet nod, thanking you for doing the hardest part of dinner. He casually looks back to your dad, continuing their conversations that they usually have: sports, their jobs, their cars, the yardwork–old man stuff you don’t have much interest in.

The water is warm on your hands as you scrub the plates and cups, the pots and pans used to cook dinner, and a light tug at your ponytail pulls you out of your concentration, a gesture he’s always done to tease you, but it feels just a bit different now. You glance from the corner of your eye, and he’s standing, all six feet and one inch tall, firm muscle built around his shoulders, making him swallow your frame. You shyly smile.

“Feels like I didn’t get to talk to you at all, kid,” Beau drawls, that smooth voice sending shivers down your back and into the space between your thighs. “Your daddy kept mentionin’ how well you’ve been doin’ with work and stuff, makes me real proud of you.”

Your lips part in surprise, a warmth flooding your cheeks. “Really?”

“Yeah… yeah,” he nods, leaning his shoulder against the archway into the small kitchen, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans. “Somethin’ about gettin’ employee of the month, isn’t that right?”

“Yeah…” you laugh, shyly looking down into the murky water. “At a drive-in,” you specify, making sure your dad didn’t tell a white lie to make you seem better than you are.

“So what?” Beau laughs, smiling at you. “I’ve been to the drive-in; people aren’t the nicest there, not an easy crowd to get along with. Give yourself some more credit,” he says, reaching out to pat your shoulder.

“Thanks,” you say plainly,  swallowing hard and looking away from him.

“No problem, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head, the both of you hearing the front door shut. “Better go fix up your daddy’s shitty car; he still doesn’t want a new one,” he laughs in disbelief.

“I know… it barely runs,” you agree, and he licks his lips.

“I’ll fix it up, no issue,” Beau reassures, standing up straight and sighing. “See you later tonight, yeah? I’ll peek into your bedroom if that’s fine,” he confirms, slowly moving closer to you.

“Yeah… yeah, that’s okay,” you smile, your eyes looking up as he steps closer, accommodating for the shrinking face and the inches he has on you.

Beau brushes past you, his shoulder gently hitting yours despite the large space he has to move around, and you turn your head, watching him disappear out of the front door, leaving you alone in the kitchen. You return to cleaning the dishes until you hear soft chatter and look up, getting a direct view of where your dad and beau are working.

Beau’s eyes are narrowed, focused on the task at hand, popping open the hood of the truck- and your dad is out of the way, watching his best friend easily find the issue, and you’re watching like you’re being hypnotized; it’s embarrassing.

You can’t help it, not when he’s leaning over the hood, sweating and focused, his hair a mess in the summer breeze, and now he’s taking off the light jacket, leaving him in just a plaid button-up that strains when his biceps flex, and he’s rolling up the sleeves, revealing his forearms. All over, he’s a strong man; strong eyes, a strong jawline, and physically strong–he has to be for his job, and you’re gushing over it all instead of scrubbing off the residue of sauce on the stupid plates. You sigh and look back down.

The kitchen is quiet, and the light is flicked off now, the sun heading down for the night, the plates and dishes carefully put away in each cabinet, and you head upstairs to wind down. You can hear your mom and her friend on the patio in the backyard, drunken laughs as they sip wine, and the occasional deep chuckle from Beau, and your dad laughing along, and you’re shutting your bedroom window, drowning out the noise.

Your denim shorts slide off, followed by your t-shirt, and you slide on the comfiest combo you have: your boyshorts and a tank-top, and you’re immediately getting into bed and flicking on your phone. You smile at your friend’s text messages, each one begging for an update on the “Beau situation” you had spilled to her–you told her the second you saw him for the first time after a few years; different, and hotter than you remember. And now she was invested in it like something was going to happen.

“You should go and talk to him,” your friend giggles over the phone, and you shift against your bed, laughing, too.

“No way,” you mumble and shake your head, your eyes gazing at the ceiling. “He’s outside with my dad right now, probably drunk or something,” you brush off, biting your lip.

“Even better,” she adds. “When guys are drunk, they say stuff they actually mean–remember when my boyfriend said he doesn’t see me being his wife when he was drunk? Look what happened,” she says, her voice monotone, like it’s obvious.

“Yeah, but he was an asshole all of the time,” you counter, your eyes glancing at your window. “Beau… he isn’t an asshole; he’s probably the sweetest guy I’ve ever known.”

Your friend makes a disgusted noise. “This is like a hostage situation; you don’t know any other guys!”

“I know enough to know that Beau is different,” you continue, sighing loudly. “I didn’t even tell you… he touched my thigh earlier, and acted like it didn’t happen,” you smile, feeling your cheeks going red again.

The moment was an odd one, and it was like something switched between the two of you; even the conversation felt heavier, like there was an unknown weight that held both of you down, and you were looking into each other’s eyes for a solution. The rest of the night you felt it, the touch on your thigh lingering, the gentle caress of his fingers; you remember it clearer than you’d like.

You were sat on the porch steps, a few stairs shy of the bottom, and Beau had taken a seat on the ones just below you, keeping you in an awkward position–licking an ice cream cone with Beau Arlen right there wasn’t ideal. He was trying to talk to you casually, but every time he turned, he’d be eye-level with your knees, but he’d look past them and up at you. You tried your best not to comment on it or just get up and leave, but instead you stared down at him, nodding when he ranted about some funny stories at the sheriff station.

“Oh, darlin’, there’s–” Beau had muttered to you, his eyes narrowing when he noticed it on your thigh; a streak of white, the ice cream dripping down from the cone and onto your bare leg. 

His hand reached forward, and he swiped the sticky mess from off your leg–brief and gentle, a barely there gesture, but your entire body felt it; the touch, the movement, the way he looked into your eyes when he did it, how his thumb was rough but gentle. And all you could do was sit there and act like it didn’t happen. 

The moment is fresh in your head, and you're biting your lip, head against the pillow as it plays out in your head again, and you can hear your friend giggling over the line as you ramble, and ramble. She thinks you’re insane for this entire thing; crushing on your dad’s best friend.

“Well, I have work tomorrow, nine in the morning; can’t be spending my time listening to you rant about this old guy,” she dismisses, and before you can even say ‘goodbye’, she's hanging up the phone.

You toss yours onto the nightstand, covering your face with your hands, laughing to yourself at how stupid you feel—yeah, crushing on your dad’s best friend is real smart, especially when he’s over most of the summer.

Your stomach growls, and you sit up, realizing you hadn’t eaten most of your dinner. You were much too focused on Beau, and his eyes, and hands, and face, and everything to fully eat what your dad had barbecued, and it was kicking you in the ass this late at night. With a begrudging groan, you crawl out of bed and open the front door.

The bathroom light is flicked on and your eyebrows furrow—your parent’s bedroom door is open, the lights flicked off, and you’re pretty sure everyone is in the backyard still. You wouldn’t know; you shut your window so you wouldn’t have to hear all of the obnoxious laughs and shouts.

“Dad?” You call out, carefully walking down the hallway, the old wooden panels creaking with each footstep, and you grab the bathroom door, twisting it.

It’s unlocked, and you push it open. Your eyes widen.

The first thing you’re hit with is humidity, a solid warmth flowing out of the room, and then you’re hit with him: Beau, his towel draped around his waist, his hair damp and slicked back from the water, his body close to the sink, and he’s looking at himself in the mirror. He turns his head to you, laughing.

“I’m—oh my gosh, I’m sorry—“ you mumble, immediately shielding your eyes, trying your best not to look down at his bare chest; all soft muscle, aged to perfection, it seems.

“Kid, it’s just me,” he laughs and looks back to the foggy mirror, blinking. “Need somethin’ in here?” 

“No—no… I just… I didn’t know you were in here,” you explain, still hiding behind the door that’s still cracked open, and he glances over his bare shoulder before reaching over and opening the rest of it. 

“Felt gross after spendin’ all day in the sun,” Beau explains, shrugging, and he’s turned to face you now. “Your daddy is nice enough to let me waste his water.”

You laugh nervously. “Yeah… he’s nice.”

Your eyes are on the tile floor, trying your best not to focus on the half-naked man before you, tall and built, taking up most of the space in the damn bathroom. He licks his lips, adjusting the towel that covers you from something you’ve been thinking about in your bed lately.

“You enjoyin’ the summer so far?” He asks, apparently trying to make small talk now. “I know the town is kinda borin’… You could always hang out with your old man and me,” he grins.

“It’s definitely… something,” you nod, awkwardly shifting on your feet, and you realize that his eyes have left yours, mostly focusing on your bare thighs.

“Yeah? What’s goin’ on?” Beau asks, still standing there, in a towel and nothing else.

“My friend… she lives pretty far away; it’s hard to ever see her,” you mumble, shrugging, and Beau nods in understanding, clicking his tongue.

“Ahh,” he nods, running a hand over his scruff. “I’m always here if you wanna hang out; it might be a little embarrassin’,” he adds.

“Stop, it’s not,” you defend and shake your head, finding yourself shifting a bit more into the bathroom. “But being with the town sheriff would… kind of make people notice me,” you add on.

Beau had a reputation—not a bad one by any means—but a young thing like you, trailing around him in his Rover? Rumours would start, and you know the boys from high school wouldn’t have an issue starting them. 

“Right,” he laughs, turning back to glance at himself in the mirror. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” you quickly say and shake your head, biting your lip. “I just… people are weird,” you add on, and he quirks a brow.

“You mean, people would start thinkin’ we’re datin’?” Beau asks, looking back to you, and he rests his hand on the edge of the ceramic bowl of the sink. “They would be outta their mind to assume somethin’ like that.”

“Yeah,” you agree, but you don’t want to agree; you wouldn’t mind if people thought that. “Would be a little weird, I guess,” you shrug.

“You think so?” Beau asks, almost as if he’s double-checking, wanting you to say otherwise.

“Do you?” you counter, gazing at him, and he’s turning to look at you. He laughs.

“My best friend’s daughter,” he drawls, his accent heavy in the moment, and he clicks his tongue again. “Not sure if that’s my place to speak,” he says.

“I don’t think it’s that weird,” you mumble, shaking your head. You feel the warmth on your cheeks, the sweat breaking out of your neck, and he somehow notices it.

“Huh,” he nods in acknowledgment, his thumb tugging into the waistband of the towel, adjusting. “Why isn’t it weird?”

“I just mean–you know, we’ve been around each other for so long,” you mumble quietly again, and Beau is turning back to the mirror. It goes quiet.

Just the distant sound of your parents outside fills the house, and you stay frozen in the doorway, unsure of whether you said something wrong or made him uncomfortable–it was bold and unusual for you, but he didn’t seem too put off by it. 

“Sweetheart,” Beau suddenly says, waving you over to him. “Where does your daddy keep his gel?” he asks casually, and your lips part, the topic changing, confirming his discomfort.

“Uhm,” you mumble softly, walking towards him and across the tiles, wet with shower water, and Beau is watching you. “In… this cabinet, I think,” you explain, and he steps aside, letting you stand in front of the sink, and he’s behind you. 

The mirror is on two doors that slide open, revealing a hidden compartment where most of your dad’s toiletries are: his shaving kit, shaving cream, all things manly, and before you can open it, a hand is against your forearm, stopping you. 

“I know where he keeps it,” Beau drawls quietly behind you, his body looming over yours, and his hand slides down from your forearm, lightly sliding to hold your waist. “Why isn’t it weird?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you hold it, feeling Beau lightly massaging your waist through your T-shirt, and then he’s bypassing the fabric, his warm palm settling against your bare skin. You sigh quietly, leaning into the touch a bit more.

“We know each other… so well, it wouldn’t be weird,” you explain again, and his eyes are on the mirror in front of you, staring at your face in the reflection. “I didn’t mean to sound gross.”

“Nothin’ gross about it,” he mumbles softly, staring at you still. “I know you well, back of my hand,” he tells you, and you can feel him lightly crowding against you.

“I think you’re the only one who does,” you confess to him, and he tips his head back a little, and you see it in the foggy reflection.

“I know you better than anyone else, yeah?” Beau clarifies, his eyes finding yours again.

You nod. “Mhm.”

“Shy, quiet thing,” he starts, lifting a hand to gather your hair from your shoulders. “Can’t make eye contact with me ever, always lookin’ elsewhere,” he continues, describing what he knows about you.

“I can’t help it,” you tell him, shaking your head. “I get nervous.”

“Nervous?” Beau laughs, still rubbing your waist, the other one joining. “About what? Think I’m just gonna touch you in front of your whole family, my best friend?”

He leans forward and tilts his head, letting his nose nudge your neck, and your lips part, hanging open at the gentle drag of the tip of it. It’s slow and calculated, and settles right at the crook of your jawline, that little part he’s noticed before.

“Don’t know this body that well,” he mumbles, and shakes his head. “I know your knees scrape easily, and you don’t like steppin’ on sand when it’s wet, and you don’t like when your mom touches right… here,” he drawls, his thumb digging into that soft spot between your ribs and hips. 

Your lips part, and you bow your head, whimpering softly, leaning a bit closer to the sink, letting it support your weight. He’s not kissing yet, just moaning, just slow drags of his lips paired with beard. 

“I know you don’t like the seaweed at the beach either,” Beau continues, listing off the way he knows you, and the way your body works, the way he’s observed. “I know you have a scar… right on your shin, sweetheart, fallin’ off your bike like a clutz.”

You can feel his lips curling into a small smile as he speaks, his breath warm and heavy against your neck, and he’s got you pressed against the sink, forcing you to feel his body against yours; a strong bare chest, and a strong hand on your body. You swallow hard. 

“No idea where you like bein’ touched though,” he continues, his hands sliding up and up, gently cradling your ribcage. “What makes you feel good?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper and shake your head, gently biting your lip, standing on your tiptoes, and he pulls you back down.

“I’ll help you figure it out,” Beau whispers, and his hands slide back down your bare waist, fingers hooking into your boyshorts. “Can learn about this pretty body.”

You shift awkwardly when he starts pulling down the shorts, but you help them down too, letting them gather at your ankles. You swallow hard again, breathing a bit heavier now that he’s holding your bare hips, quite low on your body, too.

“Noticed when I touched your thigh earlier, darlin’,” Beau calls out, licking his lips. “Flinched like a kicked puppy, all nervous n’ sweatin’. Your thighs sensitive?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, nodding.

“Sweetest thing I’ve heard,” Beau teases, lightly beginning to kiss at your neck, kissing up to your jawline. “Sweetest girl ever, too.”

Beau lets it drop, the towel, and you gasp when you feel it; he’s against your thigh, lightly pressing into the back of it, and you realize how big he must be. You groan, and it fizzles into a whimper, and you bite your lip.

“Baby, relax,” he whispers, sliding a hand to your lower back in front of him, helping you lean forward, bending you over. “You’re okay.”

Beau makes your back arch, a light curve in it that shows your slight inexperience, tied in with your want. He knows you lost your virginity a few summers back—an awkward conversation at the dinner table, your mom spilling the secret a few drinks in, and your dad nearly fainting, and Beau wishing he was the one.

“Been sleepin’ around?” Beau lightly accuses, and your eyes widen, and you’re shaking your head quickly.

“Haven’t… in so long,” you confess, your hands struggling to hold your weight. “Not since… senior year.”

“Years ago,” he drawls, licking his lips. “Poor untouched girl… just been sittin’ at the dinner table, all starved and desperate,” he coos, and his hand holds the base of himself.

He guides himself to your entrance, lightly running the tip through your folds, a constant drag that collects the slick,k and your knees go limp. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this, since a man touched you in a way you wanted.

“Drippin’ down your thighs, sweetheart,” he calls out, letting his head just rest at your entrance, letting it slightly stretch you open. “This feel okay?”

“Yeah—just… you’re big,” you confess, panting with your head bowed, and he chuckles, his chest swelling with pride.

“It’ll fit, baby,” Beau promises, and he begins to nudge himself into you, an easy glide from how wet you are.

You moan louder than you’d like, the bathroom making it practically echo, and Beau’s reaching forward, instantly covering your mouth with his hand, forcing you to arch even more as he holds your back. You whine into his palm, and he starts thrusting.

“God,” he groans with his head tipped back, his muscular thighs easily supporting his frame as he pounds into you. “Been thinkin’ about this since… last week,” he confesses, groaning, one hand holding your hip.

Your eyes are heavy and gazing in the mirror, staring at Beau; his eyes are darkened and gazing down, focusing on the soft press of your ass, the curve in your back, and how well you’re taking him. He finds the whole knees buckling thing to be quite cute, too.

“No man… ever gonna fuck you like this,” he suddenly groans out, confessing a suppressed desire. “Gonna be lookin’ for my cock.. the next time,” he continues.

Moans and whines and whimpers spill out of your mouth and into his palm, a stream of noises that you can’t seem to let out, and he’s relentlessly thrusting, his pace fast and quick, skilled. And he’s bruising your hips, and all you can think about is the beach day tomorrow; covered in bruises and red marks.

“Gonna be our lil’ secret, yeah?” Beau tells you, keeping up the steady pace, consistent, heavy thrusts that send your body forward. “Nobody has to know how much I like fuckin’ you,” he mumbles, your eyes making eye contact in the mirror.

The bathroom is filled with his soft grunts and the slapping of skin, but you’re completely muffled, just a mess of moans and whine, and weak knees that are beginning to bend, and his strong arms are helping you up.

“Makin’ you that weak?” He teases, continuously pounding, and pounding. “Poor body not used to takin’ cock this big,” he continues, his words turning into a southern babble you can’t focus on.

The back door suddenly shuts, and soft chuckles fill the living room below, and Beau pauses, buried deep inside, his eyes glancing towards the bathroom door that’s unlocked. He swallows hard and turns back to you.

“Gotta be even quieter, ain’t that right?” He teases you, and you whine louder into his palm the second he starts going again, harder, urgent now that there’s company.

You can feel your eyes brimming with tears the second you hear the footsteps trailing up the stairs, and the sound of your dad’s voice saying goodbye to our mom’s friend. And you look at Beau, and he’s lost in the moment, seemingly not worried about the footsteps creaking down the hallway.

“Honey?” Your dad suddenly yells, two gentle knocks against the bathroom door; your bedroom door is wide open, the bathroom light on. He put two and two together.

Beau slowly slides his palm away from your mouth, pausing, letting himself be buried inside of yoy, nodding for you to speak. You’re in disbelief, and try to catch your breath before glancing over your shoulder.

“Dad—“ you mumble, breathing heavy. “I’m… I’m just… I’m… I don’t feel good,” you call out to him.

“Beau went home?” Your dad asks, and you look up at the mirror; no, he’s right behind you, stuffed up into your stomach.

“Mhm—mhm… said bye… bye to me,” you stutter out, gripping the edge of the sink harder and harder, your knuckles hurting.

“You okay, honey?” Your dad asks, hearing the off breaths, the weird pants and the way your voice is strained.

“Yeah—just… I’m okay, I’ll… be out soon,” you ramble on, biting your lip and squirming against the sink, trying your best not to moan and the way Beau is back to lightly thrusting.

“Okay…” your dad mumbles, slowly walking away from the bathroom door, and retreating into the bedroom where your mom waits for him.

Beau’s hand is back over your mouth, and he’s back to pounding into you, watching your eyes flash, and your breathing pick up again. He’s grinning.

“Ain’t you the smartest girl?” Beau mumbles to you, keeping his voice low and a whisper. “Lyin’ to your daddy for me,” he adds.

You moan into his palm, and you can feel yourself getting closer now—the risk, the way he’s moving, his dirty words, the tension all day, it’s building up this pressure your body is dying to release, and you can tell that he feels the same way. He’s just getting you both there.

“Mmm… want you to walk outta this bathroom with messy thighs,” he tells you, picking up the pace, hitting places no fling has ever hit. “Want you feelin’ me inside of you… squirmin’ in bed, thinkin’ about me…”

It’s almost poetic the way you finish at the same time; a clash of feelings; he’s pumping deep inside of you, holding you against him, keeping himself buried deep, and you’re almost limp over the sink, patting and shaking your head, your hair a sweaty mess. It’s the filthiest thing you’ve done, and the guilt has already bloomed where that dull ache once was.

“Look at you,” Beau breathes out, a thick hand that’s used to handcuffing people finding itself in your hair, gripping it into a ponytail, pulling you up. “Prettiest fuckin’ girl,” he murmurs.

You look in the mirror at your reflection; eyes glistening and glassy, your lips red from pressing into his palm, and you can feel just how full you are, how deep he pumped and pumped. You love it.