Joel’s Sweetheart ☾ ˙˖ ⋆࿐༢

Taglist! I don’t normally use this for drabbles but i haven’t used it in a while.. Thanks for all of your love and support!!

@nutbutterjellie @biagaloree @justaprettyprincess @fuzzyfawnnn @katalinablossom @aria1108 @girlymoviegal @mrs-miller03 @dugiioh @tomtohee @wand-erer5 @pinterestwhore145 @hystericalanduseless9 @politeolive @severlysentientnova

And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces. 

So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day. 

And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”

His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.

It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.

Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.

So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.

He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it. 

The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.

Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct. 

This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.

And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good. 

But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.

Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.

The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.

Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like. 

He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.

But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips. 

You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack. 

Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark. 

“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”

He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.

It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”

You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.

Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock. 

Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.

You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back. 

He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”

When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you. 

His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one. 

In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.

Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do. 

Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.

When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with. 

Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.

He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche. 

Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that. 

But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.

He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.

When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response. 

Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”

He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve. 

But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.

He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity. 

Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.

He slides in real easy.

You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.

It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home. 

Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace. 

There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it? 

He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.

He wants to savor the way you love him. 

“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.

You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.

It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation. 

The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much. 

Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves. 

Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.

He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.

“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”

Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it. 

“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”

He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble. 

Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.

He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.

You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.

Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest. 

When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.

“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."

For Joel, anyway, it was pure misery day in and day out

Why? No reason other than it being the hardest to resist you. When you’d wake up all fidgety and hot and wanting him, and that burning sensation wouldn’t subside until long past your bedtime. Even in your sleep, to the man’s teeth-gritting dismay, that body lying next to his would inevitably wind up moving just as needily grinding up against him, and he’d feel powerless to its charms. He would have to relent.

Capitulation wouldn’t bother him so much if it didn’t mean you were ten times more likely to get pregnant.

“Ovu-la-tion,” you’d sounded out for him one morning, lips forming the most perfect ‘o’s and ‘u’ while you did.

It was in moments like those that Joel regretted teaching you sex at all. Giving you knowledge about your biological makeup and function certainly had its purpose, to be sure, but when he’d gone so far as to show you—how fucking sweet you’d looked peering up at him, then murmuring, ‘Show me where it goes?’—well, he’d just as well have gone out back and shot himself in the foot. The act probably would’ve been less painful and left him with fewer places scarred than what he endured each time he had to turn you away.

“Done told you about a hundred times now, honey, that kinda lovin’ leads to babies if we ain’t careful this time of month. Y’think we need a new mouth to feed?”

It killed him to say it.

Hell, deep down, there wasn’t a thing in the world he wanted to see more than a couple of rugrats with your pretty eyes and smile crawling around, pestering him.

But this wasn’t the time for that.

You’d pout and you’d clamp your legs together, tell him he was so mean, and why’d you even bother teachin’ me this stuff if we can’t do it when we both really want to? Joel would smile and smooth a hand over the crown of your head. He’d kiss your cheek and remind you he had fingers and a tongue, too, and more often than not, you would begrudgingly accept that offer.

Today, you were considerably more hardheaded and ornery. Everything seemed to be making you mad since you’d set off from Jackson an hour ago, and there wasn’t a lick else for Joel to do other than to—

“Fuck you,” you cursed, kicking a stump.

You’d almost just tripped over it.

Joel was leading the way home after a successful supply run in town and a visit with Tommy and Maria, and you appeared to be even more upset to leave than you normally were. You’d all but torn a tree limb the length of your body off of a nearby offending oak just fifteen minutes ago, and your impatience with nature was evidently only growing the longer you walked on.

The old man smothered a smile as he turned to you.

“Alright there, sweet pea?” he said.

“Nope,” you huffed at him, low.

Joel turned back to the path and pretended not to hear you threaten the life of some shrubbery by the wayside

He might’ve carried on like this for another two hours, at least. Surely the forty-five minutes that were left in your journey home would’ve been a cakewalk—and more than a little entertaining to him, despite the sharp pang of need he felt, too. When he was outdoors, and he was moving, and he didn’t have to stare for too long at your face or your body or the little swishing movements of your dress as you walked, he was fine. Or OK, anyway, and able to play it cool.

“I wish you’d bought me a bigger dildo.”

As soon as you said it, Joel choked.

Alright, so he wasn’t perfect.

“Hon, what did I say about—”

“Yeah, yeah. You told me don’t say nothin’ too ‘graphic’ about our sex life when we’re not at home, but that doesn’t really matter out here, does it?” You stopped in place, and that made him stop, too. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. I can say I get fucked every day—”

“Baby.”

“—except when you’re scared of knockin’ me up!”

It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t also painfully true.

If Joel wasn’t currently watching you shrug off your knapsack, drop the thing to the forest floor like a bag of potatoes, and glare at him as if he were maybe the single meanest man alive, he might’ve even laughed.

Then you dropped to your knees. Right there in the middle of the clearing the two of you had just been trying to cross, you went and reached inside your bag.

He’d bought it as a precaution—this…gadget.

On the nights that he knew he’d have to spend away from home for patrol or a hunt or just some emergency run to Jackson that he couldn’t have you join him on, Joel had bought you a little toy to keep you company.

Especially in times like these, when you were horny and heated as you’d ever been, it had seemed ideal.

He just wished you hadn’t chosen an open field almost an hour away from home as the first place to pull it out.

“Sweetheart,” Joel said, tone now appreciably firmer. “You ain’t gettin’ down in the dirt and…and…playin’ with yourself with that brand new toy daddy got, OK?”

But it was too late.

You’d already taken it out.

The man deserved to be punished a little bit.

What, did he think he could just open up a whole new universe of debauchery and pleasure and then shut you out of it whenever he damn well pleased? Of course, Joel had taught you about consent and how each party to ‘playtime’ between adults needed to give it enthusiastically in order for their actions to be considered sex at all, but you weren’t asking him to participate if he didn’t want to. You weren’t begging for permission, either. You just wanted to act on the natural impulses you felt inside yourself and not be treated like some kind of freak for wanting relief.

So you would fuck yourself, plain and simple.

Only it wasn’t so simple, really.

Joel had instructed you on intercourse, giving and receiving head, touching your partner in their erogenous zones, and knowing how and when to cum—many, many times since he’d first taught you in the spring—but he hadn’t shown you how to fit this thing.

You were slicker than an oil spill between your legs. The skirt of your dress was flipped up, and the pale ivory material was spilling out over the ground beneath you. Your panties were off, and your cunt was on full display.

Joel was perched between your knees, hovering.

A sheen of sweat had broken out across his brow, and you could see the moisture beading at his temples before they slid down, rolling slow to reach his beard where a sea of silver and black consumed each droplet. Lined and weathered and pathetic was the face peering down at that treasure inside you. Brown eyes blinked slow, as if in a trance, and a tongue darted out to wet his lips every now and again.

If this wasn’t power, you weren’t sure what was. Smiling sweetly, you moved the tip of the bright pink toy down your seam and wriggled your hips a little.

You pretended like it was for dramatic effect and not because you had no fucking idea how to fit a dildo inside you and actually make it feel like sex would.

“Lemme lick her some,” Joel said, lowering his head. He was on his stomach, and his face might’ve been a foot and a half away from your drooling, aching heat.

It would be so easy…

Just a couple strokes from his tongue, maybe a finger or three pumping in and out of you. Groans rumbling between your thighs and in no time, you’d find bliss.

But that wasn’t the point of all this, was it?

The point was self-sufficiency.

Not needing anybody else.

In keeping with this thought, you spread your legs even wider and began to push the tip of the toy to your core.

It made it less than a centimeter before it met with resistance. At the same time, Joel let out a strangled:

“S-Sweetheart. Baby, let me show you.”

“No.”

“But darlin’, you’re gonna hurt yourse—”

“So?”

With your other hand, you began to play with your clit.

Maybe a little pain wasn’t the worst thing to feel now.

A breathy moan slipped out of you, and you could just tell that the less-than-secret Sex Ed professor in Joel was dying inside. He couldn’t bear the thought of something hard and phallic that wasn’t his penis brushing against your velvety walls unless he had some sort of say in it. He wanted to teach you again.

“Pussy’s too…fuck.” He watched the silicone sink in half an inch before your hole forced it back out, leaking. “She’s too fuckin’ tight. Needs daddy to stretch her out a little, get her ready for the fun, huh?”

“Nuh-uh. I can take it.”

This time, you gripped the base of the thick, veiny fake cock and pushed up—three or four inches, all at once.

“Fuck, daddy,” you whimpered. “Oh, that’s so good.”

And that was all it took, apparently.

Three and a half inches, two seconds, and one soft, pleading look from you had Joel changing his mind. Or deciding something, at the very least. He flipped you.

He caught your pink toy slipping back out and held it.

“Hands an’ knees, baby. All fours, yeah. Jus’ like that.”

You could barely breathe, let alone process the words being spoken to you, but somehow you managed to follow his orders. Your mind was swimming with lust and a bone-crushing need, your body pulsing with a warmth unlike anything you’d felt in a while. That sensation would come in waves during the time of the month you were most sensitive, when you were ovulating, though those moments were all short-lived.

Now Joel was indulging you in the feeling, and really dragging it out. Not only touching you but filling you up with something that wasn’t just his tongue or his fingers. You kneeled there, awed, and you could feel your fingers curling into the grassy earth beneath you.

You arched your back, dropping down to your elbows.

And Joel took control of that toy, sawing it in and out of your dripping pussy with practiced, near-perfect precision. Even as his hold shook a little, when the grip of his free hand on your ass tightened and you heard him mutter, low, ‘Fuck, that’s it, pretty girl. Take it all inside,’ he stayed focused on you. It went in deep.

It wasn’t him, but it was close, and Joel was kind.

“Lemme stretch her out. Make her feel real nice.”

Your cunt was making loud sucking sounds with each withdrawal and entry of the dildo, and your legs had started to shake. You clawed at the grass, whimpering.

“Da—ah— d-daddy.”

“There’s a good girl. Always so sweet openin’ f’me.”

Sometimes you swore you could finish from Joel’s words alone. His timbre, his control, the way he spread your cheeks open and spit—it all made you feel filthy in the best way. In your current hormonal state, wildfire blazing through your limbs, you couldn’t help yourself.

Half-cockdrunk and ovulation-crazed: “More—More, Daddy. Want your cock in me. Fuck me now, p-please.”

“You can’t have ‘im, baby. Ain’t safe right n—”

“But you wanna fuck, too, don’t you?”

Now you were peering over your shoulder, looking up at him. Joel was watching you back with an almost mournful expression, and you could tell he wasn’t just teasing you when he spoke. He felt genuine remorse.

“‘Course I do, baby,” he answered without hesitation. “I always do. Jus’ wanna do what’s…what’s right f’you.”

At the same time, you pushed your hips back a little.

Joel’s crotch was aligned with your ass, and as soon as you moved, a big, heavy, denim-clad bulge kissed you back. It bumped the dildo even deeper, and you hissed.

Joel groaned at the contact, gaze snapping down.

“What’s safe…” His words trailed off in a breath.

A barely coherent murmur: “What’s…what’s…”

You ground your bottom even harder against his front, the base of your toy no doubt bobbing back and forth.

Self-sufficient. Easy.

“Sweetheart.”

In and out.

“Daddy, I want it,” you pouted.

More friction.

More pleasure sprouting between your legs, tightening in your core and all but forcing the sentence out of you:

“Can’t you…put ‘im someplace else—someplace safe?”

Your mind was spinning perilously, not really forming any logical thoughts, but the concepts were there: your pussy, your mouth, between your tits, up and down.

Joel had started to move his lower half in time with yours—pantomiming thrusting. Grinding even harder when you dropped your head and let out a needy sound and begged him, ‘Put him anywhere, daddy.’

Joel’s hips jerked forward, and he cursed.

“Anywhere, baby?” he said, breathless.

He was dry-fucking you in doggy now.

The dildo was still lodged in your pussy, and Joel was still fully clothed, but he started to move as if he had really mounted you and was splitting your cunt, or something, open on his cock. He humped you like an animal in heat, grunting and groaning and holding your body as if it was the last thing tethering him to Earth.

Feeling equally feral, you turned your head again, and you asked him in a tone as sweet as you could manage:

“Please, Joel?”

He was going to explode.

You are not fucking her in the ass, Joel told himself. You are not doing that. Not now, not later, not ever.

Better late than never, you thought with a smile.

After verbally sparring with the man for all of five minutes—arguing that you should, in fact, use some ‘loophole’ that would keep you from getting pregnant—Joel had agreed. Angrily. Seeming to hate himself for it

“This is not somethin’ you do on a whim, hon,” he’d groused, scrubbing his beard in a slow, worried way.

He’d opened his satchel anyway. Rifled around in the thing before procuring a bottle of something sleek and sloshing. Your gut had twisted, but you’d felt eager, too

You hadn’t been entirely clear on what this kind of sex entailed, but if it was anything like the first time Joel had taught you, you sensed that you would enjoy it.

“So you just…put ‘im someplace new, is that right?”

“Ain’t like that.” Joel had shook his head.

“But—”

“No ‘buts,’” he’d interrupted at once. Poured the liquid from the bottle into his palm, the stuff gleaming in the sunlight a pale yellow hue. “‘F’we do it, we do it slow.”

So that was how you and him were doing it.

Slow.

Now you were perched at the edge of a riverbank, your gaze drifting lazily with the flow of a stream no more than four or five feet away from you and a sense of gentle, calming quiescence filtering through your system. On all fours again, you felt comfortable.

Joel had rolled out a blanket for the two of you to take your places and was careful to secure a new spot away from the beaten path, under the shade of a stand of aspens. Both of you had stripped. With the hand that wasn’t lathered up, Joel rubbed circles into your back.

“You sure you don’t mind doin’ things a little different today, baby?” His voice was low, almost grave. “Won’t do nothin’ unless you like it—I want you to know that.”

And if your body hadn’t already gone half-limp with all the pressure and the pleasure this man was inflicting on your muscles through his soft, kneading motions, you might’ve turned around and faced him. Smiled and said something like, ‘Don’t be silly, daddy. I like it all.’

Your contented hum evidently conveyed that well enough, because the next thing you knew, there was a new force beneath the kneading, between your thighs.

Solid, wet pressure you were more than familiar with.

“Daddy,” you giggled, body jerking forward a little at the sensation of him licking through your folds. “‘S’ain’t— ain’t no different! We always do this!”

At first, Joel didn’t answer—he simply tracked his tongue down the length of your seam from behind and lapped wetness from it. Nosed further between your legs and used his beard to stimulate the extra sensitive skin while he nipped at your slit, kissed your aching clit, and sucked your essence with the sweetest fervor. It didn’t take much for the arms holding yourself up to grow weak, then, and shortly, you were moving down onto your elbows with your rear pointed up at Joel.

He speared your dripping, quivering cunt with that tease of a muscle repeatedly, in and out again and again while you shuddered against him and sighed.

He maneuvered the hand that was coated in that slimy substance, finally, and started palming your ass with it.

“Daddy…p—please…I want…”

Joel paused just long enough to unglue his mouth from your pussy: “Want what, now, darlin’? What?”

You wriggled again, and you let out a dramatic huff.

“You know what,” you told him, words a plea. You rooted your bare knees even deeper into the blanket, and you canted your hips up. Pushing back onto him. “Wanna come, and I want…want you to be…inside.”

“That so?”

And to your surprise, you heard a chuckle, soft and low

At almost the same time, the hand covered in the slick, oily stuff started sliding down your ass again, inward, sliding through not just your folds but the entire cleft.

Joel knelt again.

Put his tongue to work again.

And for a second, you wanted to rebuff him…again.

Felt tempted to kick your feet and say this lickin’ ain’t any special or different, daddy! Sure ain’t no loopho—

“Oh.”

You froze.

Stared straight at the river and watched it churn and gurgle and flow and saw none of what was going on, really, because you’d just been hit with a new feeling.

Realization.

Penetration somewhere else.

You couldn’t even wonder at where that originated. Your legs clamped together, and you let out a breath.

“Wh— Why’re you lickin’ there, daddy?” you stuttered.

Joel’s hum vibrated through your center all the way to your teeth, causing them to grind together while you tried making sense of this novel feeling. Whimpering.

A few more featherlight, languid licks from Joel, then:

“Need it wet back here if I wanna play with her, right?”

“But that’s not my—”

“I know, baby.”

After Joel’s, your next words were swallowed up in a moan when the man started tracing circles—making an outline of a ring, again and again—and it was all you could do to keep from rutting your hips in helplessness

Ever the patient teacher, Joel stroked your back with the hand that was dry, again, and gave you a second to soak it in. With the hand that was coated in slick, he followed after his tongue with just the fingertips rubbing, coaxing the flesh. Prodding it to open.

“See, this hole doesn’t self-lubricate like your pussy does, sweetheart,” Joel said, near-pedagogical now. “No matter how turned on you are, it’s never gonna get all drippy and wet and pliant on its own. ‘S’why I gotta coach her along. Make sure she’s nice and slicked up.”

“But why?” you squeaked, reflexive. “For— For what?”

“For this.”

Then Joel slid something inside—not his tongue.

It edged in once, maybe half an inch, then slid back out. And in again, deeper, before retreating to the rim and toying with the muscles you felt clamp in unison.

“Try to relax, darlin’. Only makes it harder if you don’t.”

“But how come?” You squirmed. “Feels funny, daddy.”

Joel took a beat, and for that moment, he didn’t move. Just held whatever he’d stuck in you—presumably, his finger—and he didn’t poke or push you again, just held the tip tight to your puckered ring and hummed softly.

“Y’know the stuff I put on my hand?” he asked.

“Some…Some kinda oil, I guess?”

“Olive oil, that’s right, baby. It ain’t ideal, I’ll admit,” Joel paused, and it felt like he was shifting around. Adjusting his grip, maybe, until you sensed what felt like his thumb pressed up against that slicked place. “Back in the old days, they made real, um…gooey stuff special for doing things like this. Called lube, OK?”

OK. You nodded, still too off-kilter to look behind you.

Suddenly, swiftly, Joel’s thumb started to rub a little.

And you couldn’t say why your body jumped the way that it did, but you jolted before you could even try to keep it in. You mewled like some kind of strange and wanton creature, and you pushed your hips backward.

Embarrassment gripped you almost immediately.

Blinking hard and staring straight ahead, you shook your head, “‘M’sorry. Sorry. Don’t know why I did that.”

“Aw, honey,” Joel cooed. “Baby. Don’t apologize, OK?”

Still, your face was hot. You hated how you’d sounded.

“Would you turn around and look at me, sweetheart?”

Slowly, you did.

Behind you, your old man was perched on his knees, with a serene and gentle expression on his face. The fine lines and wrinkles had smoothed considerably, and what was left behind looked like understanding.

Wanting, too.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, what we’re doin’,” he started, slow. He rubbed a big, slick hand over your skin, and your whole body warmed in response to it. “Might make some different sounds, ‘cause Daddy’s playin’ with a whole different hole, and that’s OK. What’s important is that you like what’s happenin’.”

A brief beat of silence.

“That’s…consent, right?” you said shyly.

Joel grinned. “Yeah, darlin’. That’s consent.”

Consent when he edged in his finger to the knuckle next. Consent when he sawed it in and out, and twirled it around. Consent when he added a second, then a third, then quit the stretching altogether and just bent down to latch his mouth onto your wet, quivering ring.

He kissed it and licked it and laved it in saliva. Spit on it more than a couple times. His beard must’ve been drenched by then, but Joel didn’t seem keen on stopping for a while, judging by his grip on you.

Meanwhile, you were amped to no fucking end.

“Oh, daddy,” you hissed out a sigh of pleasure when his tongue slipped back inside, all the way and wriggling. “Daddy, put it—put him in, now.”

Joel grunted and retracted his tongue.

“You sure you’re ready for it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And where do you want daddy inside?”

“Um.”

You snagged your bottom lip between your teeth.

It felt wrong to say it, so you simply pushed your knees wider apart. Arched your spine, blinking back up at him

“There,” you whispered, wiggling your hips.

“Darlin’, you’re gonna have to say the place out loud if you want me to fuck it, OK? That’s all part of the deal.”

“But daddy.”

“I need you to get comfortable with stuff you think is wrong or ‘taboo,’” Joel continued, gentle but firm. “Don’t want you gettin’ halfway through and thinkin’ maybe you shouldn’t’a done it, and feel ashamed.”

Maybe that was part of it.

Maybe you did feel a little embarrassed that your body was currently in flames, and you wanted this man inside you so badly that you’d accept him anywhere, anyplace, even if you hadn’t the faintest idea how—

“Baby.” Joel interrupted your thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me all the places we’ve already done it.”

Your cheeks warmed reflexively.

“We…we’ve…”

“In your pussy?”

You nodded back.

“Between your tits?”

“Y-Yeah. There, too.”

“And…?” Joel trailed off.

“And…” You stared back at him, cheek resting on your forearms and your naked ass still up high by his face. Admittedly, this did feel a little enervating. But you tried to bite the embarrassment with a little smile. “You’ve…put ‘im in my mouth—fucked my throat, too.”

Joel grinned back. You took that as your cue to go on.

“And um…well, I’ve sat on your face. Rode your…thigh a little bit before. And you’ve rubbed your cock, like, between my legs until you spilled all over my pussy.”

“Anything else?”

“We did that ‘69’ thingy.”

You were pretty sure that was all of it.

Joel hadn’t been teaching you for that long. Compared to him, anyway, your experience was but a blip on the radar, and you had a good ways to go before you could say you were anywhere near as knowledgeable as him.

You peered curiously at your teacher; he peered back.

“Now, can you be a good girl and say where daddy’s goin’ next?” Joel goaded you gently. Edging in closer.

“In my, um…” You couldn’t help it when your face heated again. You braced yourself. “In my…backside?”

It sounded dumb as fuck saying it like that.

Surely there had to be a better word than—

“Anal.”

“Anal?”

“Yeah, sweet pea.” Joel smoothed his touch up your spine, then back down again. He rubbed at the muscles that were tensing slightly. “That’s it.”

From your position under him, it was hard to read his face. You couldn’t begin to imagine the look on yours.

When you didn’t say anything at first, still processing that one word, Joel went on—massaging, and talking.

“Old school birth control, I guess you could call it. Probably more effective’n rubbers. And it means daddy can cum as much as he wants, deep as you’ll let ‘im, y’know, cause, uh…y’can’t make a baby in the butt.”

You let out a giggle.

Again, you couldn’t help the reflex.

“Really?”

“Really, really.” Joel smirked.

Solemnity of the moment temporarily suspended by a couple sly, stupid grins and laughter sneaking out between you, Joel dove in. He didn’t drop his whole body weight on top of yours, but he got damn near close with the way he pretended to collapse and his entire torso draped over your back while you kicked and squirmed and bit out, giggling, ‘Get off, daddy!’

You lay flat on the blanket, belly-down, and Joel planted his forearms on either side of your frame, caging you in. He bent down to pepper you with kisses.

“That tickles!” you hissed, chin jerking against the assault of his lips. You writhed and laughed with him.

The little detour couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or two, Joel touching and teasing and kissing you in that sweet way he did, and you pretending to be annoyed. But your body relaxed, and you didn’t protest in the slightest when Joel tilted your chin back to him to get a proper kiss. You opened your mouth without thinking, melting under that calm and tender caress.

Warmth crowded you. Something hard pressed into the space between your legs, and you parted your thighs unconsciously. Joel groaned into the kiss.

“Darlin’,” he started, only for his breath to hitch a second later. You’d lifted your hips the slightest bit and pushed back toward him, so the tip of his cock was nudging between your cheeks. “Hey, there’s no rush, OK? Daddy can wait longer if you need more time.”

“I don’t. ‘M’ready now.”

Really, you didn’t understand why Joel seemed so loath to try this with you. Had he changed his mind?

With the side of your face cradled in his big, warm hand, you craned your neck slightly to meet his gaze, and you asked him, quietly, “Do you…not wanna…?”

Joel blinked once.

He looked almost ready to internally combust or blow up when he nodded his head, fast as he ever did before

“Yes. I do. Sweetheart, I wanna be inside you so bad, but this kinda sex…I just get nervous, might hurt y—”

At the same time, you raised your hips again.

With Joel’s broad and bare and massive body blanketing your own, it was hard to push far, but you did well enough. You pressed the blanket for leverage.

You notched the head of Joel’s thick, leaking cock at the entrance it had never breached before—that taut little ring of muscles—and you sank in backward. Slow.

“Oh,” you groaned at the sting, which was immediate.

Joel had been right: it hurt. It wasn’t remotely the same as being penetrated in any other place, and it almost made you want to squirm away with how tight and uncomfortable it felt. The oil barely helped at all.

Then Joel groaned, too. The hand holding your jaw tightened its grip reflexively, and as it did, his cock jerked inside you. He was no more than half an inch in.

“Baby, fuck,” he cursed. “You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

You lips twitched up a little, despite the burn.

“It h-hurts. Feels…weird,” you said honestly.

Joel halted without a moment’s hesitation.

He bit out a soft, rasping apology, ‘’M’sorry, sweetheart. ‘M’sorry. Daddy didn’t mean it.’

And, just as he moved to pull his tip from your achy hole, you eased your hips back onto him again, further.

Your muscles clenched hard against the intrusion—a dull throb spiraled from the spot where Joel was entering you, right up through the column of your spine—and a pitchy whine clawed out of your throat.

You ground your teeth and sucked in a breath, feeling as split open, exposed, and vulnerable as you’d ever been. It didn’t seem like something should go there.

But desire had other plans for you both, apparently.

The plea bled into your tone, covert and quiet.

“Keep goin’, daddy. Please. I want it.”

Your eyes locked with Joel’s, your hips stirring again, and that look communicated everything you needed.

Joel swallowed.

It had to be a relief to him. Dreamlike, almost.

“That right?” he said, slow smile starting back.

And you like it like this, don’t you? was implied.

The first wet drag of your heat down his length was painstakingly slow. You made it halfway to the base when your rim squeezed tight, and you made a face. Pain flared, but only momentarily. Joel was there to hold steady, knees firm on either side of your legs, as he let you take the lead a little. He kissed your neck.

“There’s my brave girl,” he murmured in your ear. “Takin’ it all like a big girl, huh? Like usin’ this hole?”

You nodded, fucking yourself further onto him.

New. Taboo. Stretching out a different place, all because you were ovulating, and this was one of the few ways to make sure pregnancy didn’t happen.

Joel let you sink back until the swell of your ass was kissing the coarse gray hairs at the base of his abdomen. Your hole fluttered and sucked at his cock, and Joel’s grip flexed on your jaw. His hold lowered.

And, just as the muted sting had begun to settle in your stomach, reality of what was going on and how you were taking him gradually touching your conscious brain, you felt fingers press your throat. They were gentle, not forceful. Just testing your level of comfort.

“Where’s daddy, baby?” he murmured softly.

“In my ass,” you answered. Holding his gaze.

He squeezed more, groaning when you squeezed back.

“You like takin’ cock up there, sweetheart?”

“Yes, daddy. Love—Love feelin’ you here.”

And it was strange—the harder he held you to him then, the more he stretched you and made you want to whimper and writhe on the blanket, the better it got. The more pressure he applied and the more possessive he seemed to get with each aching second that passed, the easier that weight felt inside you.

The deeper desire burned when Joel lifted up and dragged his cock with it, tip sliding to your entrance.

You wanted him sheathed back inside you.

You wanted to take some control yourself.

So, before the old man could make the next move and ease back in, you pushed up swiftly. You heard, and you felt, a wet squelch as your channel spread to accommodate his girth all at once. It burned a bit.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” Joel cursed.

“Like that, daddy,” you whimpered.

You turned your head so you were facing the river again, fingers curling into the worn, plaid material of the blanket beneath you. Joel lifted slightly, as if unsure what else to do but needing more, and you obliged by sliding back. And forth. Rutting your hips and rubbing your raw, wet hole up and down his shaft.

You didn’t ride Joel often. He was usually the more dominant one, wanting to take charge and fuck you senseless. But today, on this sweet, quiet, balmy summer afternoon, you made the man pant and groan and grip your throat helplessly while you used your taut, yet-untouched orifice to drive him out of his mind

Pleasure sparked low in your body, in a place you didn’t think it was possible to feel it. The pain turned sweeter.

It wasn’t like it disappeared altogether, but it did become something you could use to get yourself off.

That, on top of Joel’s strangled, labored words right next to your ear, damn near pushed you over the edge.

“Pussy must be feelin’ extra lonely seein’ daddy love all on this other hole, ain’t she, sweet pea?” Joel shifted, lifting your hips higher to fit his hand between your thighs. He groaned at the contact. “Can feel her leakin’ somethin’ awful—like she’s achin’ to be stuffed, too.”

Now he was meeting your thrusts; they got weaker and sloppier while he took two fingers to your clit and started rotating them over the swollen little nub.

Euphoria blinded you for a moment. Your body jerked, teeth sank into your bottom lip, and you cried, hoarse.

“Fuck me, daddy, please.”

You didn’t care which hole.

Your bodies were colliding, grinding in frantic tandem with one another and making the most obscene sounds as you did. Joel’s strokes were maddeningly shallow, like he couldn’t keep out of your warmth more than an inch or two before he needed to be driving back in, scraping your insides and fucking you fast.

“Wanna fill you in both, next time,” Joel said, almost helplessly. Rutting in harder with each new word. “Stuff that pretty pink dildo in your pussy while I take your ass, or the other way around, whatever y’want.”

Your eyes squeezed closed at the thought. Stars burst behind the lids while Joel fucked you relentlessly, and you pictured getting plugged up by both your toy and his cock, and you almost hit your peak in the moment.

Then your eyes opened again, and Joel had lowered his head beside yours. He tilted your chin to him with the hand that was still on your throat, pressing tenderly despite how hard he was pounding you from behind.

“How’s that sound, sweet pea?” He smiled.

You trusted him.

You nodded your head.

Then, in what felt like it might’ve been out of place with any other man but him, you kissed. Deeply. You parted your lips, let Joel’s tongue invade your mouth, and you absorbed every grunt and moan and praise while you did the same with those quick, sharp thrusts. The dichotomy was so dizzying you almost didn’t hear the good girl, and sweet, perfect thing, takin’ all o’me.

His words were so continuous and sweet, and your orgasm was so rapidly approaching that you almost didn’t say what was humming in your skull, presently.

But it came out before you could try to stop it.

“In—In my pussy next time,” you panted from the kiss. Staring at him. “Want you to come inside me, a-and—”

Joel’s cock throbbed inside your ass, and he groaned.

“Baby. Please. Don’t say it.”

You knew he wanted to hear it, though; it was just a matter of how dangerous the declaration would be once it left your lips and hung in the air between you.

The knot of pleasure in your stomach swelled to the size of a fist. Your body shook with each thrust Joel delivered, and the sweet feeling curled your toes, made drool start to peak out of either corner of your mouth.

Your eyes were as soft as they’d probably ever been peering up at Joel then, watching him stare right back.

Your insides squeezed, and he drove in even faster.

Joel’s lips couldn’t have been more than an inch away while he held you to him, knit his brows, and practically heaved the next breath out while he hammered at you.

“Don’t wanna…play it safe next time?” he groaned.

You shook your head.

“Want me to come inside your pussy next month?”

Your soft yes, and its result, could’ve ended you both.

As soon as you said it, recognition that was pregnant with meaning filtered between you, and your bodies drew even tighter. Joel leaned in to kiss again, needy as you’d ever seen him, the muscles of that sweet, slippery ring choked his cock from root to tip as he stabbed in repeatedly, and you kissed back, grinning.

He erupted inside you not long after your hole spasmed and your body went lax under him, spent. You felt him fuck his seed deep in your ass and relished the feeling, while also picturing it leaking somewhere else.

Ovulation was a dangerous fucking thing.

Joel pulled out, fingering the warm, white, gooey stuff right back into your fucked-raw channel when it started to dribble out. He kissed behind your ear.

He pressed his length flat against your lower back, wet with fluids and nowhere close to going soft after the events that had just transpired—with the thoughts that were no doubt humming through his head same as you

Over your shoulder, you met his gaze, the smile on your lips a little sleepier but no less eager than it was before.

But that's what you maybe liked about him. People would talk. Oh, how much they would talk. They would say he pinches too hard, slaps too rough, spanks you until you weep. They say he calls you puppy like a dog, pet like a thing, girl like you barely deserve that much. 

But they never see the way he holds you after—thumbs brushing the red mark on your cheek, voice low like gravel: "That's my girl."

He sometimes pinches your skin without looking up from his newspaper. 

Sometimes he doesn't even need a reason.

You'd be standing at the stove, stirring something for dinner, and he'd come up behind you. His fingers would find the soft skin just above your hip, pinch until your breath hitches, and he'd murmur right into your ear: "Been too quiet today, puppy. What's on that pretty mind?" 

You'd try to answer, but the words would come out shaky. 

He'd pinch harder. "I didn't tell you to speak." 

Until you'd go still, and he'd kiss the back of your neck like a reward.

Oh, but the slaps. 

Those would come when you really stepped out of line. 

Maybe you sassed him in front of the mailman. Maybe you rolled your eyes when he told you to fetch his boots. He didn't raise his voice. He never did. 

He just waited until you two were alone, then he'd take your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilt your head just so, and say: "You know what you did, girl." 

And then his palm would connect with your cheek, not hard enough to knock you over, but enough to make your ears ring and your eyes water. 

He'd hold you steady while you'd blink through the shock. "Better now?" he'd ask, soft and mean. 

You would nod, and he'd lean in and press his lips to the same cheek, a kiss so tender it hurt worse than the slap.

The spankings were a language all on their own. 

Over his knee in the living room, the fire crackling, his hand rising and falling with a rhythm that felt like a hymn. 

Each smack echoed through the old farmhouse. He'd count, but sometimes he'd lose track, stop, shrug, and start over. "Don't matter," he'd mutter. "You'll be red either way." 

By the end, your skin was heated, your thighs were wet, and you were crying on his flannel. He'd pet your hair, then his fingers would find your chin, tip your head back, and he'd spit into your mouth—a warm and slow act. 

"Swallow," he'd say, and you did. "That's it." 

Some nights he would only give you the tip of his cock—just the head, slick and warm, pressing against your entrance.

He'd lie behind you, half-asleep, one arm under your head, and nudge into you an inch, maybe less. 

Then he'd stop. "That's all you're gettin' tonight, puppy." He'd yawn. "Been real mouthy." 

And he'd fall asleep with just that tease inside you, leaving you clenched and desperate, your hips twitching against him in vain. He never stirred. He was dead to the world, and you were left in the half-dream of his presence, aching for more of a man who didn't even know he was torturing you.

Other nights, he'd take you slow out of pure meanness. 

He'd lay you out on the rug, spread your legs wide, and push into you with a patience that made you weep. 

Each thrust was a long, dragging press, his cock filling you inch by inch, then pulling back until just the head remained. 

"Beggin' without a sound, aren't you, girl?" he'd say, chuckling, thumb pressing into your clit just enough to make you gasp. "You want to come, puppy?" 

You'd sob out a yes. 

"Ain't that a shame." He'd speed up, just a fraction, enough to build that wave inside you—and then he'd stop. "No. Not happening." Over and over until you were a mess of sweat and pleadings, until you forgot your own name and only remembered his.

And when he lets you come (rarely), it's always almost an afterthought.

He'd be inside you, slow and deep, analysing your face, and you'd be wrapped around him, whimpering, and he'd sigh like he was tired of the whole thing. 

"Go on, then," he'd mutter, pressing his thumb into your clit. "Get it over with." And you wpuld shatter, and he'd grunt once, then pull out and spill all across your belly, his breath hot on your face. 

"Look at you, girl. Good puppy. Are you gonna thank your old man?"

And you did. You always did. 

Because under that meanness was a man who built his whole world around you—big shoulders and worn hands, a country house with a porch swing where he'd sprawl and let you curl at his feet like a cat. 

He'd stroke your hair and spit into your open mouth without breaking his gaze on the horizon, just because he could, just because you were his, and you'd swallow and feel like you were part of a story that had no beginning and no end.

This is not a story meant for other ears. 

It's a fairytale only you two know the ending to—a dream where the mean old man keeps his little pet safe, warm, and used under the same roof, and she wouldn't want it any other way.

Joel doesn’t know how he had gotten himself into this particular situation with you.

He’d watched you grow up, had you and your family over for cookouts, spent Christmas’s with you, hosted sleepovers for you and Sarah. You and your father were like a found family for him.

And he could relate to your father, y’know? Being a single parent with a daughter. That was why they’d clicked so well when Joel moved into your neighbourhood with a baby Sarah — twenty seven years old and completely unprepared for raising a baby by himself.

But now? Now you were an adult — twenty-two years old at that. And he’d never thought about you in a sexual way before. Never perved on you or even viewed you in any other way than being Sarah’s childhood best friend and his buddies daughter. The girl he’d offer a ride to here and there when her dad wasn’t home, who he’d walk back the few doors down to her own home in the neighbourhood after one too many with Sarah — despite being furious with Sarah for even thinking about drinking underage.

But that changed the night you’d made a move on him while tipsy.

Your father had asked him to pick you up from a bar after getting delayed in traffic coming home from visiting your grandparents. One thing led to another when you stumbled into the car, giggly and glassy eyed, and you kissed him.

And there was just something about that kiss.

Maybe it was just him being completely touch starved for the past six months — going through quite the dry spell in the bedroom department — but he’d kissed you back. Your hand eventually found his cock, palming him through his jeans and it was then in that moment that any responsibility eddied from his brain.

He’d taken you right then and there. In his lap, in his car, in the parking lot of that fucking bar.

And that one time thing? It became sneaking into his house at night, quickies in the bathroom of whatever neighbourhood event you were at, copping a feel in the new hot tub your Dad installed in your backyard.

And he felt fucking awful for it. Disgusting. Perverted and filthy. So he’d kept his distance from you. He’d linger around your father or Tommy at events, he’d make excuses about how you couldn’t come over during the night.

He did everything he could to avoid seeing you. Not because he didn’t like you, not because he didn’t want you, but because he knew that if he was around you, he wouldn’t be able to deny what you needed from him.

And that terrified him.

The sweltering heat of the Texan sun burned down onto your skin, the denim shorts and gingham shirt you were wearing showing off enough skin that the temperature was just about bearable.

You assisted Sarah in dragging her insanely heavy suitcase out into the front yard of Joel’s home. Your dad had brought the car around to Joel’s place to make things easier when it came to lugging bags into the cars.

Your aunt Kelly was tagging along this year to the anual lake house trip with Joel and Sarah. Normally, it was just you and your dad from your family, but this year, after your aunts divorce, she insisted on needing to get the hell away from that damn house, considering her Ex Husband still hadn’t gathered enough money to move out and the sound of his snoring — even from the guest bedroom — was as insufferable as it had been when they were married.

Which then meant that Tommy — Joel’s younger brother — suspiciously opted to come along too after consistently refusing to for the past month. Tommy had actually known your aunt previous to Joel meeting your father, from highschool. And ever since Joel became friends with your dad, Tommy used that as his excuse to try and sway your aunt in his direction. Shameless flirt.

So it was made clear last night that Tommy would be riding in your car with your Dad and Kelly, therefore meaning you would have to suffer through a whole two hours of listening to Tommy sweet talk and Kelly pretending not to notice or care.

“Jesus, what did you pack in this thing? We’re going for a week, Sarah. Not a year.” You huff, dragging the handle of the case while she pushed it along with her foot. Of course, she’d had to choose to pack her shit in a suitcase without wheels on the bottom.

Sarah laughs breathlessly, kicking the luggage rather harshly for emphasis, nearly sending you toppling over. “Girl, this is only the second case. Wait until you feel the weight of the third.” She grins.

You groan, dropping the handle and laying your hands on your knees. Jesus, you needed to build up your strength. But you couldn’t help the laugh that spilled out of you from the complete ridiculousness of the situation.

Just as you and Sarah start pull yourselves together, a strong hand comes down on your waist, gently straightening you and moving you out of the way. “Give me that, baby girl,” Joel says to Sarah, the sound of his voice making your toes curl beneath your sneakers. You’d heard him call you that nickname multiple times by now.

You step out of the older man’s way, allowing yourself to subtly take in the sight of him in front of you. He was wearing a pair of dark navy jeans, the ones he was clad in quite frequently, and a simple denim shirt, rolled up to his forearms to accommodate the warm weather.

Really and truly, with the things you and Joel had been getting up to recently, going on the lake house trip for a week, sleeping in the same house, your room just a door down from his, was not convenient in the slightest.

Joel had been keeping his distance from you, and as much as he tried to act as if it was down to being busy, or responsible, you knew he was just guilt ridden about the whole situation.

You knew he felt bad. Shit, so did you. But it wasn’t like what you were doing was necessarily wrong. Yeah, maybe it was a little unconventional, but you were both two adults who could make their own decisions.

You watched as Sarah gave her dad a grateful smile as he bent over and hauled the suitcase off the ground with a grunt, walking over toward his car to load it into the trunk.

But Sarah’s voice cut him off.

“Can you actually put it in Mark’s car? Tommy’s going with him and Kelly and I really wanna watch the show. Plus, I’d be doing y/n a favour.” Sarah turned to you, a playful smile on her face, completely oblivious to the shit going on between her childhood bestfriend and her father. “You don’t mind going with Dad, do you?”

You saw Joel’s back stiffen as he paused at the trunk of his own car, before quickly pulling himself together and picking up the case to take it to your father’s open trunk. You felt yourself freeze for a moment before clearing your throat with a playful grin of your own, turning towards Joel. “Of course I don’t.

“Put your seatbelt on, m’not gonna tell you again.” Joel orders, one hand on the wheel while the other reaches over to grab your belt, waiting for you to take it off him. His eyes remained fixed on the road, but you could feel how tense he was with having to make contact with your body.

You were only ten minutes into the drive to the lake house and you’d already succeeded on getting on Joel’s last nerve. First, it was you insisting on playing One Direction full blast on the radio, then it was the continuous bubbles you were blowing, forcing him to roll down the window and practically beg you to throw out your gum, and now it was this.

You knew that the constant reprimands were just his own way of keeping from any awkward silences, not that you would let there be any. You were quite content to yap his little ear off the entire ride, push his buttons until he finally decided to give in.

You huff, straightening in your seat and shoving the belt into the buckle. “I was just taking it off to tie my shoe. Relax, Dad.” You say with a grin, knowing just how wrong that nickname would sound considering what the two of you had done together.

“Please, don’t call me that. Just.. fuck. Just sit still, would ya? All this goddamn fidgeting is gettin’ on my nerves, kid.” He grits, his gaze still unfaltering from the road ahead.

“Hmm, sure it does,” you croon, picking up the can of Cherry Coke to your lips and taking a long sip, exhaling dramatically at the taste. You cross your leg casually over the other, keeping your eyes ahead. “Y’know, with the way you’ve been acting toward me recently, some would call that avoiding.” You say condescendingly.

Joel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if a headache had formed there. Yet, not that he’d show it, he felt a pang of guilt hit him in the chest for how he’d been acting. You didn’t sound particularly upset, if anything, your voice was light, teasing.

“Things have just been.. busy.” The lie was smooth, he thought. But the tone in which he said it in was slightly warning. Don’t push it.

You seemed to get the message and hummed thoughtfully. But then, a dramatic gasp left your lips, one that if he didn’t know better, sounded rehearsed.

You may or may not have purposely spilled a bit of the Pepsi down your shirt. You were sly like that. You’d spotted a dark grey t-shirt tossed on the back seat behind you, and a dirty, slightly cheesy, little plan had formed in your head. One that would hopefully make Joel crack.

“Fuck!” You exclaim, setting your drink into the cup holder and beginning to rub at the wet, dark patch of your red, gingham shirt. Joel turned his head, temporarily removing his eyes from the road at the sudden outburst and recognised the issue. You moan in irritation, peeling the fabric forward so the spillage didn’t seep through onto your skin. “This is gonna stain.”

“Jesus,” Joel mutters under his breath, focusing his attention back onto driving.

You glare sidelong at him. “Shut up, Joel. I really like this shirt.” You frown, looking down at the brown stain already appearing. “Do you have a spare shirt I can change into? I don’t really wanna have to get out.” You ask conveniently.

Joel freezes for a second, the thought of you in his shirt.. fuck. He’d seen you in them countless times now. He almost always allowed you to wear them after one of your little sessions together. But slowly he turns back to you, clearing his throat to attempt to act natural. “Should be one in the backseat.” He nods behind the two of you.

Bingo.

You immediately twist in your seat and remove your seatbelt again, leaning into the back to grab the shirt and reaching down to slowly lift your top up. Joel stops you with a hand on top of yours.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he blurts as you turn to him in confusion. “Shouldn’t you wait until I find somewhere to pull over? Or.. I don’t know, do it in the back?” He suggests awkwardly, glancing between you and the road.

You tilt your head to the side, a “are you kidding me?” expression on your face. You pick up his large hand and set it back onto his lap, resuming your movements and beginning to tug the top up, until it exposed your stomach. “Oh, come on. It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before. And I’m literally just taking off my shirt.”

True. He couldn’t argue with that. So he didn’t. He just swallows thickly and tried to keep his eyes on the road. Tried to think of anything other than you removing your shirt, exposing your white.. fuck… your white, lacy bra. He could see it from the corner of his eye, he wondered if that white lace matched whatever your were wearing downst —

No. He couldn’t think like that. And fuck, now he was getting hard.

Not right now, he begged his cock internally. It would be a matter of seconds until you had that t-shirt on. Until you would turn to him and see a tent beginning to grow in his pants. Jesus, he felt pathetic. Like a fucking teenager unable to control himself.

He was so ashamed. Of how far he’d let this go between the two of you. He should’ve been the bigger person, should’ve told you that he —

“Are you hard?”

Your voice cuts through his thoughts, making him snap his head toward you, his cheeks already reddening. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unable to reach down and adjust himself in his pants without seeming too obvious. You were now dressed in his shirt, the fabric loose around your arms.

Your mouth was twisted in a shit-eating grin and he already knew that he was done for.

“Just.. stop.” He mutters, clenching his jaw enough to hurt. He forces his eyes away from you, praying that the ground would just come and swallow him up. How was he even supposed to respond to this? Get himself out of it?

“Oh my god, you are,” you giggle, twisting in your seat to face him and propping your feet up onto your seat. “Fuck, Joel.” You say, your voice dropping an octave.

The sound of your tone getting quieter, a little more intimate, had him throbbing in his pants. He’s heard this tone of voice more than once by now. The sound of your moans and soft, sweet whimpers and pleas when he fucked you started to float around his head. The way you’d babble, trying to keep that menacing, teasing demeanour but failing miserably every single time.

“Was a nice little trick ya did there.” he gritted, and you could have swore the car picked up the speed. Not enough to be dangerous, but to show just how you were affecting him.

You turned your head to the side, your smile only growing. “Mhm? It worked, didn’t it?”

He didn’t respond to that particular question, just took a deep breath and adjusted in his seat once again, bringing a hand that wasn’t on the wheel to run through his slightly greying hair. “We cant do this.” He said firmly, but it seemed like it took everything within him to.

You bit down on your lip, slowly, ever so slowly, bringing your hand down onto his lap. Your trail your finger tips in a circle on his inner thigh. Testing. Teasing. “Can’t do what?” You ask innocently, as your hand finally lands on the spot between his legs. Palming his cock through his jeans. That thick, heavy, beautiful cock.

You manoeuvred yourself on the seat until you were sitting on your knees, and then, you leaned across the centre panel, until you were eye level with his lap, resting your cheek there as you slowly began to undo his belt.

Joel moans softly, uncontrollably. He couldn’t stop the sound from coming out when you worked on his belt with record time, tossing it aside and starting on his buttons. “This. It’s not — fuck.”

And then his cock was out of jeans and in your hand. His tip was flushed a shade darker than usual, beading with a pearl of pre-cum. “It’s wrong.” He finished with a sigh, both hands now gripping the wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

You held back the urge to smile when you dipped your tongue out and lapped up the pre-jack there, humming at the salty flavour. “Why is it wrong?” You question him again, your voice oozing with false innocence. You ran your thumb along his shaft, looking up at him and waiting for an answer.

“You know why. Stop playing games.” He grits, his face pleading.

“That didn’t stop you before,” you muse thoughtfully, starting to consistently kitten lick the underside of his head. “Didn’t stop you from fucking me that night. Right here, in this car.”

Joel felt his reason snap. Fuck it then. Fuck it. You wanted to play this game? Then fine. He’d give you what you wanted. But then it was over.

Famous last words.

His hand drops down to tangle in your hair, forcing your parted mouth to take in his cock. He couldn’t take it anymore. The teasing. It was rich coming from him considering he’d given you the same shit numerous times. Waiting until you’d beg. Plead. You make a surprised sound at the action but welcome his tip into your mouth, sucking hard enough to make Joel hiss, his grip tightening.

“Fuck, Angel. Is this what you wanted? Wanted to rile me up? Test my fuckin’ patience?” He demands, scratching softly at your scalp. He hears you hum a sound of confirmation around him and the vibrations send him dangerously close to closing his eyes and taking his focus off the road completely.

At least he’d die a happy man.

You hollow your cheeks, the suction of your hot, wet mouth making a soft moan fall from Joel’s lips. You feel yourself grow needy between your legs, the spot at the apex of your thighs swelling and pulsing in time with your thundering heartbeat. You clench your thighs together in an attempt to diffuse some of the tension there.

You feel your pulse thrum in your head, the adrenaline and wrongness of the situation only heightening your arousal and, seemingly, Joel’s. The thought of someone passing in their car, seeing you here with your head between your fathers best friends thighs sent a thrill down your spine.

You pull off his cock and gasp for a breath, a string of spit connecting you to Joel. Joel peeks down at you for longer than was probably considered safe, the sight of you drooling and messy for him, fucking your mouth on his dick.. fuck it made his balls tighten.

Joel’s hand comes down to cup your chin, tilting your face up for your eyes to meet his. “Gonna get me in trouble, you know that?” He asks a little rhetorically. His voice is husky, a little guttural.

You give him a wrecked look in return, rutting your hips downward to emphasise what you wanted from him. “Please.” You say softly, your eyes doing the talking.

Immediately, Joel understands what it is that you want and makes quick work on using his free hand to unbutton your denim shorts, shoving his hand down your underwear and finding you slick and warm. The thought of what he could have his cock inside rather than your mouth, made him groan. Not that he didn’t love your mouth, but fuck, that pussy..

You gasp involuntarily as his thumb connects with your clit. Honestly, you weren’t really looking for any penetration, just some rubbing to ease the tension you were feeling. And it was as if Joel understood just that. He always did.

You moan softly and part your mouth once again, grinding your hips into his hand as you bob your mouth up and down on his cock. You bring a hand up to his shaft, wrapping around the part of him you couldn’t fit in your mouth. Your other hand rests on his inner thigh, the solid muscles beneath your hand making you even more aroused.

You can hear Joel struggling above you, his head thumps back against the headrest, his fingers getting sloppy on your clit as pleasure started to cloud his mind. You smile as best you could with his girth stretching your mouth when you feel him start to tremble. “Good?” Your garble around him, your voice muffled and ridiculous.

And you could’ve sworn you heard him growl at the sound of your voice. He nods, grinding his teeth hard enough to hurt. “Gonna cum — fuck,” he swears. “That’s good, sweetheart. Real good, use your tongue under my head, just like that.” He blurts, his hips bucking up slightly, as if he couldn’t control it.

Which, he probably couldn’t.

And then he was cumming.

His tip begins to spurt rope after rope of his hot, creamy cum into your mouth, the quantity of his seed telling you just how long it’s been since he’s found release in the time you’ve both been apart.

You whimper at the sensation of him filling your mouth, the scent and taste of him on your tongue. Without thinking twice, you swallow him down in one, a feeling of relief settling deep in your stomach despite not having a release yourself.

Joel pants above you, his hand that was in your pants now shoved into his mouth. You hadn’t even realised he’d been sucking the taste of you off his fingers until now when you looked up.

And the expression on his face? It was pure bliss.

Okay I know this is really short and I actually kinda hate it because I got super lazy toward the end but…. I love this dynamic!! Pls consider dropping a comment or reblog if you enjoyed, it’s very much appreciated!!

His jeans strain across his thighs, and there—right fucking there—that thick swell of him, rock hard already, pressing against the denim, swollen in need. Above it, that soft pudge of his belly, that little curve you've pressed your face into a hundred times only when he lets you. Only when he's feeling generous. 

Your eyes drift to that spot you love so much, picturing his cock already leaking for you. 

He tsks sharply, the sound cutting through the tense air like a whip. 

Your gaze snaps back up, but it's already too late. His eyes have gone dark, narrowed down at you with something sharp and cold. Annoyance. Disdain.

"Too god damn desperate," he growls, his voice low and gravelly. "For your own good."

You can't help but nod frantically, your mouth already watering at the thought of him, saliva pooling under your tongue. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling with raw need. "I need it. In my mouth."

You lean forwards then, nuzzling against the rigid outline of his erection, inhaling the musky scent of him through the denim, your desperation making your hands twitch at your sides, itching to touch but knowing better than to try.

His hand moves fast.

He grabs a fistful of your hair at the scalp and yanks, wrenching your head back so hard your neck cracks. Your gasp cuts through the quiet.

Then his palm comes against your face.

A slap lands across your cheek with a sharp crack, the sting blooming hot and immediate, leaving your skin tingling and your breath catching in your throat. 

You freeze, eyes wide and pleading, the slap only fueling the fire of your need rather than dousing it. Your cheek burns, but you don't pull away; instead, you stay perfectly still, gazing up at him with utter submission, your body trembling with how badly you crave more.

He holds your gaze for a long, heavy moment. 

A small "pathetic" leaves his lips. 

And then, something flickers in his expression—not softening, never that. But a decision. 

"Alright," he says, calm. "You want it that bad? Open the zipper. With your mouth. Only your mouth."

You don't hesitate.

You lean in, your lips brushing against the cold metal tab of his jeans zipper. Your tongue darts out, fumbling, clumsy, desperate to please. You catch the tab between your teeth and tug. The teeth of the zipper part slowly, and you work your way down, your jaw aching, drool already starting to slip from the corner of your lips.

Inch by inch, the fabric parts, and then his cock springs free through the open slit in his boxers—thick and heavy, veins bulging along the shaft, the swollen head already glistening with a bead of pre-cum that drools from the tip. It bobs right in front of your face, so close you can feel the heat radiating off it, the salty scent filling your senses.

You drool again; a fat string of saliva that drips from your lower lip and lands on your own thigh. You don't even notice. All you see is him.

"Jesus Christ," Joel mutters, but there's no tenderness in it. Just exasperation. "Look at you. Droolin' like a bitch in heat."

You don't care. You can't care. You're already leaning forward, lips parting—

His hand clamps onto your hair again, stopping you. The pull hurts on your scalp already. 

"I ain't done talkin'."

You freeze, a whimper leaving your lips.

"I'm gonna fuck your throat," he says, each word deliberate. "Deep. Slow. And you're not gonna gag. Ya hear me?"

You nod as much as his grip allows, a jerky, desperate motion.

"No gaggin'," he repeats, making sure you understand. "Not a sound. You take it. That's what you're made for."

He doesn't wait for an answer.

He guides the head of his cock right between your lips, and you open for him—greedy, hungry, your tongue already stretching out to taste him. He pushes past your lips, past your tongue, and keeps going. 

He's thick. So thick that your jaw aches instantly. You taste every vein, every inch stretched wide around him. He fills your mouth completely, and he keeps pushing, deeper, until his tip nudges the back of your throat. 

You feel your body already rebel—a reflexive clench, a spasm from the back of your throat. But you force yourself to relax, to open, to take.

And then he's past the barrier, sliding into your throat in one smooth, burning slide.

Your eyes start to water. 

Tears spill over, falling one by one down your cheeks. Your nose is pressed against the hair at his groin, and the world has narrowed to the taste of him, the stretch of him, the smell and the sound of his breathing.

He holds there. Just for a moment. Just to let you feel it.

"Good girl," he says, and the praise is so unexpected, so incongruous with everything else, that a sob of relief catches in your chest. But he doesn't let you savor it. "Now we're gonna move. Slow. And you're gonna keep that mouth open."

He pulls back, almost all the way out, leaving just the tip resting on your tongue. 

Then he pushes in again. 

Slow. 

All the way in until his fat head drags against your palate, your tongue and then lands against the back of your throat. 

He sets a rhythm with slow, agonising thrusts that bury him deep, hold for a heartbeat, then retreat. Every time he sinks in, your throat convulses around him, trying to accommodate, and every time he pulls back, you drool—a mess of spit and pre-cum that strings from his cock to your lips. 

You try to breathe through your nose, keep your jaw unclenched and throat relaxed while tears still spill from your eyes. 

Joel watches. His eyes are half-lidded, focused entirely on where he disappears into your mouth, and on your tears. His free hand then comes up, and you feel his rough fingers on your throat—right over the place where his cock is sliding in and out.

He presses down lightly, rubbing the skin.

"You can feel it, can't you?" His voice is a low murmur, almost lazy. "Feel me right here, movin' in you."

You can. The sensation is foreign and intimate, his fingers tracing the bulge of his own cock moving inside your throat. It makes you moan, a muffled sound that vibrates around him.

"Quiet," he says, calm, there's no heat in it. Just a reminder.

He keeps going. Slow, Relentless. Making your throat memorise the veins of his cock. 

Your jaw aches. Your throat burns. Tears and drool mix together, soaking your chin, your neck, the collar of your shirt. 

But you don't care. You'd stay like this forever, if he'd let you.

He thrusts a little deeper, then. Turning a little harder. His rhythm suddenly changes, becoming more urgent, his hips rocking forward with a rougher snap. You can feel his cock throbbing inside your throat while his breathing thickens, the grip on your hair tightening to the point of pain.

"Fuck," he grunts. "That's what you're only good for. Gonna fill that throat of yours. Gonna pump you so full."

Your eyes roll up, meeting his for a brief moment. He's watching you; gaze dark, possessive, hungry.

Then he groans, a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest and his cock swells against your tongue. He thrusts deep one last time, burying himself to the root, and you feel the hot pulse of his release hitting the back of your throat.

There's a lot. Wave after wave, thick and bitter, flooding your mouth. You swallow instinctively, your throat working around him as he keeps twitching, keeps coming.

He holds you there, pressed against him, until he's empty. 

Then he pulls out slowly, his cock sliding wet and spent across your tongue, slowly softening. 

You're a mess. 

Sobbing and sniffling quietly. Spit and cum and tears all over your face. But you keep your mouth closed, holding everything down.

Joel takes a step back. His hands drop to his sides again. He looks down at you, breathing hard.

"Open," he says.

You do. You part your lips, tilt your head back, showing him the inside of your mouth. Clean. Empty. You swallowed every drop like a Good girl. 

He looks at you for a long moment. His expression doesn't soften. 

But he nods. Once.

And that for you, is everything.

Guess who is ovulating again lmao

A window with dull concrete around and dry bushes stared back at you, a perfect reflection of the life you were dragging behind you.

Empty apartment, tangled sheets with an unmade bed, mind drifting through fog with no direction or desire. 

No one to share this pathetic lunch with, no one to come home to, no soft words to chase away the ache of isolation. 

You chewed mechanically, staring at the same patch of wall you stared at yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The world kept moving around you; cars passing, coworkers laughing, life happening—but only you  had felt stuck, suspended in a moment you just couldn’t climb out of.

"Oi, Jerry! Tell that fucker to hurry up!" 

And of course, it was once again him, interrupting your thoughts. 

Joel Miller, the delivery guy who rolled in every Tuesday with stacks of office supplies, had been part of the background noise in your life long before he became your fuck buddy. 

You couldn't ignore him if you tried to anyways; he owned every room he entered with that brash, take-no-shit swagger. 

Pushing late forties, hair slicked back with whatever cheap gel he had, a solid gut from beers that he wore like a trophy, not giving a damn. 

He smelled like cigarettes and gas stations, a scent that clung to the office air and sparked whispers amongs your coworkers—not out of dread, but that eye-rolling tolerance for the loudmouth who never knew when or how to shut up.

Joel was all noise, no substance: complaining about bullshit traffic, picking fights over nothing just to hear his own voice win, his gaze sliding over everyone—guys, gals, whoever sparked a glance. 

Heck, he sees ass, he looking. He finds a face pretty, he flirtin' no matter the gender. 

But with you back then? He kept it clean, no sleazy lines or winks, even if his eyes hung a beat too long. He'd spot you, acknowledge, then bounce, like some unspoken rule held him back. 

What flipped the switch that day? Maybe that bare finger where your ring used to sit, or the way your stares locked, or just dumb luck kicking in.

Maybe even fate.

"Well, hello beautiful—thought I was the only fool smart enough to sneak off from all that hustle out front." You can still remember the exact words. "What's a pretty thing like you doin' hidin' with your lunch on a day like this? You work inside, right? Must be nice. I'm out here breakin' my back while you're in there enjoyin' the air-conditionin'."

His words were annoying, your fuse already short from the weight of your own misery. 

"You're real chatty, huh?" He asked, laughing deep and unbothered, pressing on: "Most people say hi back. Or at least blink. You're like talkin' to a statue." 

You stabbed at your greens, sighing loudly.

"That's alright. I talk enough for both of us."

He flashed a grin, propping his clipboard like a throne, eyes lighting with that devilish spark. "If I'd known there was someone this cute hidin' back here, I'd've started takin' my breaks here weeks ago." 

You didn't lift your head at that point.

"Ah, playin' hard to get. Classic." He teased. "Name's Joel. And you are?"

Head down, fork scraping plastic, you shot back cold: "Not interested." 

He let out a low whistle, more entertained than stung. "That's an interestin' name, sweetheart." Chuckle rolling out thick. "Bet it's real hard to fit on a driver's license."

Annoyance flickered hot, mixed with the dull throb of your solitude—you wanted him gone, but he stuck, a loud intrusion in your quiet hell, dragging the outside world into your numb bubble. 

"Alright, miss not-interested. Try not to miss me too much." He called out, and finally left with that.

-

"Lord almighty, I swear this job's tryin' to put me in an early grave," he announced to absolutely no one, wiping sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. "Ain't even noon and I already wanna go home, crack a beer, and pretend today never happened."

The second week, he didn't just stand in front of you and yapped about everything and nothing—no. 

He sat down right next to you. 

He dropped onto the concrete with a grunt so dramatic it almost echoed off the wall. 

And you didn't look up. You just prayed that he will get up and leave. 

But of course, he didn't. 

"First thing this mornin', some jackass parked his truck sideways in the loadin' zone. Sideways. Like he spun the god damn wheel, said 'Jesus take the wheel,' and Jesus said 'nah.'"

You stabbed your salad.

"And them warehouse men today? Useless. Every last one of 'em. 'Joel, can you lift this?' 'Joel, can you sign that?' 'Joel, can you fix the forklift?' 'Joel, can you suck my dick?'" You almost chocked on your salad, looking at him in disgust. He chuckled. "Nah, just kiddin'—I'll yap 'bout my route instead." 

At some point Joels vulgar language became the standard. At some point. But unfortunately not that day. 

"Drove through three counties this mornin', dodgin' puddles bigger than ponds. Tell ya what, darlin', days like this make a fella appreciate findin' a pretty face to break the monotony. You just sit pretty; I've got stories for days."

You inhaled slowly through your nose and closed your eyes for a second, and that was enough for him to make another dumb joke. 

"Oh, look at that—she's alive," he said, chuckling.

You glared at him, only earning a grin from him. 

"But...you're real good at this, y'know."

"At what?" you muttered.

"Listenin'," he said, smug. "Most folks interrupt me halfway through my first rant. But you? You just sit there takin' it like a champ."

Then he winked obnoxious.

"Guess you're built different, sugar."

You stabbed at your salad again, trying to ignore the twist in your stomach after that pet name. Joel finally pushed himself to his feet, scratching at his belly as he dug a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket.

"Alright, not-intrested. Same time next week."

-

By the third week, you hated to admit it—even to yourself—but you could remember a flicker of anticipation that waited for his presence. A tiny, unexpected part of you sparked with oh, he'll probably show up again. 

Because how many days had you been sitting alone on this concrete, telling your coworkers it was "nothing," that the divorce was just a "mutual decision"? 

How much you hated their whispers and the way their eyes kept drifting to your bare finger—all of them inventing their own version of your own story, none of them stopping to think, even for a god damn second, 'maybe we should just leave her alone'. 

"Lord above, if this mornin' gets any worse, I'm throwin' myself in front of a forklift."

You didn't look up, because you knew exactly what was about to happen. 

He plopped down besides you with a grunt, holding a lunch bag and groaning: "Shoot, sugar, you're quieter than a church mouse on sunday, again. but that's fine—means I get to unload without interruption." 

So you sat there, clutching on a sad little muesli bar, not even having the slightest energy to open it and listening to his ramblings. 

You were exhausted. Exhausted from waking up each day and pretending that everything is okey. Exhausted about battling thoughts on going sick for the day, or even leaving work. 

"Warehouse's a damn zoo," he muttered, digging inside his launch. "Boss got me waitin' around 'cause some idiot mislabeled the shipment. Again. I swear, I'm surrounded by fuckin' morons."

He pulled out a sandwich; thick, messy, wrapped in crinkled foil and was about to take a bite when he finally glanced sideways.

His chewing stopped.

He stared at your muesli bar.

Then at you.

Then back at the bar.

"…What in God's name is that."

You blinked. "Lunch."

He snorted. "That ain't lunch, hon. That's a god damn cry for help."

You rolled your eyes at him, ignoring his glance. 

Then, without warning, he tore his sandwich clean in half—one loud, irritated rip and shoved the bigger piece toward you.

You recoiled. "No."

"Take it."

"I said no."

He grabbed your wrist then, not rough, just stubborn, and slapped the sandwich half into your palm.

"Gonna starve yourself to death with that lil' piece of shit," he grumbled, already unwrapping his remaining half. "Ain't lettin' you pass out on my watch. I ain't fillin' out paperwork for that."

You stared at the sandwich in your hand. It was warm, heavy, smelling like cheap deli meat and something spicy. 

Your throat tightened.

Your husband used to make you sandwiches.

Every morning. Even on the days you didn't speak. Even when the marriage was already cracking down the middle.

You swallowed hard.

Joel didn't notice because of course, he was already back to complaining.

"And another thing...traffic was a damn nightmare..."

You didn't know then how much he'd matter. -

You couldn't exactly remember why you ended up in a bar that night.

You hated alcohol. The taste. The warmth in your throat. 

But it was one of those evenings where the past clawed its way back, uninvited, wrapping around your thoughts like fog and making your heart ache. And as much as you tried to drown it with liquor, a Coke zero did the job better that night.

His hand used to fit perfectly in yours, pulling you through days that blurred into moments of happiness and quiet joys; lazy Sundays with coffee steaming in the kitchen, his laughter rumbling low as he teased you about burning the toast again, the way he looked at you as if you were the only one in his life. 

And now? 

It was all gone, evaporated like morning mist under the harsh sun, leaving you lost in this unfamiliar city, this bar that hummed with the low murmur of conversations you didn't want to join. 

Who did you blame?

Him, for letting the spark die out in a series of unspoken silences? 

Yourself, for not fighting harder, for not seeing the cracks sooner? 

Had you changed too much, bent too far for his expectations, until you were a shape you no longer recognized? 

The questions swirled in your mind, unanswered, as you stared into the bubbles of your drink, the ice melting slowly. 

And there you saw him again. 

Joel. 

He was perched on his stool like he owned that place, nursing a pint of beer that sloshed slightly as he scratched at his big belly, the fabric of his faded flannel shirt straining against the motion. 

You sighed, and rolled your eyes painfully. 

His gaze lingered too long on a woman's ass as she leaned over the pool table. 

Years later you would hear whispers about him, from the regulars who nursed their own sorrows at the bar; how he was a fixture here, always chasing the next warm body, stumbling home with someone on his arm, the scent of whiskey heavy on his breath. 

They even said he had a daughter once, lost her young to some tragedy that hung over him like a shadow, but in that night, you didn't know about any of that. 

That night, you just wished this god forsaken dim light would swallow him whole before he noticed you.

But as if the universe conspired against your solitude, Joel caught your eye across the room. 

His lips curled into a smug smirk, the one you already know all too well. 

He shifted on his stool, the wood creaking under his weight, and without a second hesitation, he pushed off and headed your way, his boots thudding softly against the floorboards. 

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice thick with that southern twang.

He stopped just close enough that you caught the faint whiff of his cologne—cheap and musky, mixed with the sharpness of the beer.

"Didn't expect to see my lunch buddy here, lookin' all lonesome and pretty under these sorry lights. What brings a fine thing like you to a dive like this on a night that's beggin' for trouble?"

You rolled your eyes again.

"Still playin' hard to get, hm?" Joel persisted, leaning one elbow on the counter besides you. 

He chuckled low, a rumble that vibrated through his chest, and took a step closer.

"Darlin', you know you can't fool ol' Joel. I see that fire in your eyes, even if you're tryin' to hide it behind that soda. Come on now, what's a man gotta do to get a smile outta you tonight?" 

"Joel, please," you said, your voice flat, edged with the irritation. "Ain't in the mood."  

He didn't take the hint—never did. Instead, he grinned wider.

"Oh lord almighty," he drawled, dragging out the words exaggerated. "The statue can talk, eh?" 

He set his beer down right next to your soda with a clunk, and slid onto the stool besides you, his knee bumping yours under the counter—accidental, or so he'd claim. 

The foam from his last sip still clung to the edge of his mustache, a white froth that made him look even more unkempt, more insistent.

"You look like you could use somethin' stronger than that coke, sweetheart. What's got you all twisted up? Some fool broke your heart, or this city just grindin' you down? C'mon now ol' Joel's got an ear and a shoulder, 'specially for a gal who looks like she needs a little…distraction."

"None of your business, Joel. Go bother someone else." 

But Joel just leaned in closer, unbothered, his breath warm and beery against your ear as he launched into another rambling.

"Aw, don't be like that, Honey. I'm just tryin' to help a lady in distress. Let me buy you somethin' stronger…or we could slip outta here, find somewhere quiet where a southern gentleman can take care of you proper."

He took a long pull from his beer then, the liquid going down his throat, and when he set it back down, a fresh bit of foam clung to his mustache, dangling there for a second before he swiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his stubbled chin. 

You felt the weight of Joel's words settling over you like the bar's humid air.

"Look, I ain't tryin' to go where I'm not wanted. Just sayin' you look like someone life's been gnawin' on. I've been there. Lost a marriage once. Hurts like cheap whiskey goin' down."

His flannel sleeve rode up slightly, revealing a faded tattoo on his forearm, a blurry horse that spoke of younger, wilder days, and you couldn't help but wonder, fleetingly, what stories it hid or if it hid anything at all.

The blunt honesty surprised you, slipping past your annoyance and stirring a thin thread of curiosity.

"Yeah, well," you muttered, your voice barely rising above the hum of the room. "Doesn't mean I need your pity party or whatever this is."

But the words lacked their earlier bite, softened by the way his story mirrored fragments of your own unraveling.

Joel chuckled, his mustache twitching as he scratched at his jaw, stubble rasping against his nails. 

"Pity? Hell nah, darlin', that ain't my style. See, after my own shit fell apart, I figured out the best way to forget is with a little company that don't ask too many questions, just shows up warm and willin', lets ya lose yourself in the moment till the sun comes up and chases the shadows away."

You swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat eased just a touch as his words wormed their way in, distracting from the echo of your ex husband's words.

"Company that doesn't ask questions," you echoed softly, the phrase tasting foreign on your tongue, your gaze dropping to the melting ice in your soda. 

There was uncertainty in your tone, but a flicker of interest sparking, even if you didn't want to admit it. 

"Exactly right," Joel drawled. "No drama—just see where the night takes us, you and me, darlin'. If you say stop, I stop. I promise, by the time we're done, them troubles'll be nothin' but echoes."

His implication clear as day, without shame and respect. The kind of blunt talk that should have repulsed you outright. 

And it did, in part; disgust curled in your stomach, at the sleaziness of it all, this old man yapping nonsense like it was gospel. 

Yet beneath it all, as your world of careful plans and shattered stability cracked wider, a strange pull tugged at you—an attraction born from desperation, the want of something to numb your thoughts.

"You're disgusting," you shot back, the words tumbling out sharper than intended, your cheeks flushing. 

Joel didn't flinch; instead, his lips quirked into that infuriating smile.

"And you're beautiful, honey." he replied, his drawl softening. 

The compliment landed unexpectedly, stirring warmth in your chest you hadn't felt in ages.

Overcome by the rush of it all; you acted on impulse, leaning forwards to press your lips to his in a kiss that was quick and fleeting, tasting the bitterness of beer and the rough scratch of his beard against your skin. It was a moment of raw need, but as quickly as it happened, you pulled back, confusion flooding your features, heart pounding.

Joel's eyes widened for a split second, surprise flashing across his weathered face, before that smirk returned, smug and knowing. 

"Well now, ain't that a surprise," he drawled, voice thick with teasing triumph. "Looks like all that neediness was just bubblin' under the surface, waitin' for a little nudge." 

You froze, the vulnerability crashing over you in waves, embarrassed.

Joel's expression shifted then, the smirk softening just a tad bit. 

"Easy there, honey," he murmured, drawl low and coaxing. "No need to bolt like a spooked filly. I get it—world's been rough, leavin' ya all tangled up inside. But how 'bout we take this outta here, head to my van? It's got space, privacy, and I can help chase them tormentin' thoughts right outta your pretty head, least till mornin' comes callin'."

He nodded towards the door.

You breathed deeply, steadying the whirlwind within. 

What the hell was wrong with you? 

Your eyes met his, searching in those crinkled depths for something real amid the sleaze, and after a long moment, you nodded, accepting the uncertain path ahead. 

Joel grinned, wide, sliding off of his stool with a grunt. He fished a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket, tossing them onto the counter, the bartender nodding absently as change clinked back. 

Then he stood, extending his hand towarsd you beckoning you into the night, the beginning of something tangled and unexpected.

-

His van was...if you'd put it nicely...very compact. 

Boxy, and worn down to its bones. The paint had faded into a chalky blue, chipped along the edges like old nail polish. Rust bloomed around the walls in stubborn freckles, and the back door had a dent big enough to suggest a story he'd never bother telling. A tiny row of potted plants sat on a narrow wooden shelf outside the window, their green leaves pressed against the glass like they were desperate for some water.

Joel's hand settled on your waist as he guided you forwards, fingers splayed just enough to steer you through the puddles without a word. 

Who were you in that moment? 

The woman who'd once ironed her husband's shirts on Sunday mornings, planned grocery lists with precision, traded her drafting table for community meetings and minivan keys? 

And now this—trailing after a stranger's touch into the night, not knowing how it'd end. 

"Y'know, darlin'," he drawled, "this ain't exactly the Ritz, but it'll do for keepin' the wolves at bay. Got a little garden out back of the park where I park most nights. Pretty flowers on summer and stuff. Ain't much of a flower guy though." He chuckled at his own nonsense.

You tried to school your features, to keep that flicker of disgust from showing: the way the van's interior peeked through the grimy windows, cluttered with stuff and a tangle of extension cords, a far cry from the crisp lines of your old house with its polished counters and linen curtains. 

It almost repulsed you, that glimpse of transience, the life pieced together from scraps and stubborn will, but you bit back the words, swallowing them away.

Joel noticed it anyway; his hand tightened fractionally on your waist before loosening. He cleared his throat, the sleaze turning into something almost shy, almost like shame as he fumbled for his keys. 

"Yeah... I know it ain't the best place," he admitted, the drawl softening, "Folks look at it and see a mess. But hell, it gets me through the day, y'know? Keeps the roof—such as it is—over my head and the road under my wheels. No mortgage chasin' me down, no fancy lawn to mow into submission. Just me and this old stubborn ass." 

He shot you a sidelong glance, eyes crinkling with a forced grin, trying to lighten your mood with that rambling charm of his. 

The door slid open with a metallic groan, releasing a puff of warmth laced with the faint, musty scent of unwashed blankets and motor oil. 

And inside—much to your surprise—it was actually cozy and put‑together.

 Sure, there were empty cans and bottles scattered around, and it clearly hadn't been cleaned in a long time. But somehow, it still felt warm.

There was a narrow space lined with built‑in cabinets, a real bed raised against the back wall with a worn quilt folded neatly on top and a compact kitchen with a proper stove and a tiny sink squeezed beneath a window. Soft fairy lights hung along the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the wood. 

"C'mon, darlin', don't stand there catchin' your death," he said. "You can lay down on the bed if ya want—ain't no palace, but it's clean enough, or as clean as a man livin' solo gets. I'll crank up the heat." 

He fiddled with the controls until the vent rattled awake, warm air stirring inside the van. 

Uncertainty started to coil in your gut, as you sat down his mattress—a tangle of doubt and fleeting desire, the perfect wife you'd been fracturing further with each passing second. 

Joel sank down besides you with a grunt.

"Look, I ain't gonna rush ya," he murmured, "We can just sit here, listen to the rain play its tune on the roof, talk 'bout nothin' if that's what you need. Or...whatever feels right. Your call, beautiful—no pressure from this side of the van." 

His words washed over you, annoying in their length and sleaziness, yet oddly soothing, smoothing the jagged edges of your thoughts. 

You nodded, barely, your fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt. 

This wasn't you—climbing into a van with a stranger, a loudmouthed guy who lived like this, all nomadic and unapologetic. 

But his promise echoed in your mind, that he'd fuck all your problems away, and part of you, buried deep, wanted to believe it.

Before your brain could catch up, you leaned in, smashing your lips against his in a rush of impulse again. Joel's smirked against you, that smug curve pulling him back just enough to break the kiss. His rough hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your jaw. 

"Well now, ain't you just warmin' up quicker than a skillet on the stove, eh?" he murmured, eyes sparkling like he'd won some unspoken bet.

You ducked your gaze, staring at the frayed edge of the blanket, your pulse racing under his touch. 

"How long's it been since somebody touched this beautiful body of yours, huh?" He asked, one hand sliding down to trace the curve of your shoulder. "I mean, look at you—curves like a backroad at midnight, all soft and invitin'. Bet it's been a spell, baby, leavin' you all pent up and achin' without even knowin' it."

Too long. 

It had been too damn long since anyone had looked at you like that, let alone touched you with intent. 

You squirmed under his touch, that directness was disrespectful, disgusting in its bluntness, the way he talked to you like you were a prize he'd earned. 

But god, the arousal twisted deeper, heat pooling between your thighs, making your breath hitch. 

He didn't wait for words; his lips found your neck, pressing open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, stubble scraping in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine. He nibbled at your earlobe, teeth grazing just enough to earn a soft gasp from you, his free hand roaming over the swell of your breast, thumb circling through your shirt until your nipple hardened under the attention.

"Hey now," he whispered, "this still alright with you, sugar? I ain't pushin' if you ain't ready—though damn if you don't taste like trouble I been cravin'."

You nodded, words already failing as your body betrayed your caution, arching slightly into his touch. 

Joel's grin widened, pleased, before he captured your mouth again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming dance. 

He shifted, guiding you back onto the mattress with a gentle push, his weight settling over you. That big belly of his pressed down, soft and heavy against your stomach, pinning you.

He broke the kiss with a chuckle. "If you can't breathe under all this, darlin', just holler—though I reckon you'd rather I smother you a lil' more, keep you pinned like the pretty thing you are."

You rolled your eyes and pulled him back down. 

Your kisses grew hungrier as Joel's hand wandered lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before dipping between your legs. His fingers brushed the edge of your panties, and you startled, thighs clenching instinctively, a jolt of uncertainty spiking through the haze of desire.

"Whoa there, easy now," Joel soothed, not pulling away but pausing, palm resting on your thigh. "Ain't no need to jump like a cat on a hot tin roof, beautiful. I got you—gonna take it slow as molasses in January, make sure every touch feels like heaven. Been doin' this dance longer than you think, and I promise, by the time I'm through, you'll be beggin' for more of this big ol' belly pressin' down on ya."

His words tumbled out, long and filthy, uttering nonsense half of you didn't even understand. But it distracted you from that uncertainty and replaced it with a fresh wave of want. 

He slipped his hand under the waistband of your panties, fingers finding your slick folds. 

You were soaked already, embarrassingly so, and he groaned low in his throat as he traced your clit in slow, deliberate circles. 

"Goddamn, honey," he muttered, "you're drippin' like a summer storm out there."

He slid one thick finger inside you, then two, curling them just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The stretch was big, his movements steady and unhurried, pumping in and out with a rhythm. 

You moaned, the sound escaping raw and needy, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.

"Listen to you, moanin' like a siren callin' me home," Joel teased, thumb pressing firmer on your clit as he worked you deeper. "Sounds filthy as hell, sugar—got me harder than a fence post just hearin' it. Keep makin' those pretty noises; I could listen to 'em all damn night while I finger this sweet pussy of yours."

"Shut up," you gasped, half-annoyed, half-breathless, but the words unfortunately lacked any bite, dissolving into another whimper as he quickened his pace, the wet sounds of his fingers filling the van.

The coil in your belly tightened quicky, pleasure building quick, the months without touch, the sleepless nights, every stroke of his fingers pushed you closer. 

And when the orgasm hit, it crashed over you in waves—your walls fluttered around his fingers, body arching off the mattress as you cried out, the release washing away all the insecurities in a flood of bliss.

"That's it, beautiful, come for me," Joel praised. "I got you, honey, ride it out...yeah, just like that."

As you calmed, Joel shifted slightly, his free hand drifting down to his lap, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. 

He pulled out his cock then; thick, heavy, already hard and swelling under his grip as he gave it a slow stroke. 

Your eyes widened, locking onto the sight—veined and girthy, curving upward with a heft you'd never encountered, the head flushed and glistening faintly in the low light. 

It was bigger than anything you known.

He chuckled, low and smug. "Like what ya see there, beautiful? Ol' Joel's packin' a bit more than most fellas, ain't he? Been told it makes a gal's eyes pop just like yours are doin' now—wide as saucers, wonderin' how it'll all fit. Don't worry, sugar; this big boy's got a mind of its own, but it'll treat ya right if ya let it."

"I want it." You whispered before you could even stop yourself. 

What was wrong with you? 

Joel's smirk widened, knowing, as he kept stroking, his thumb circling the tip to spread the bead of pre-cum.

"Oh, I know ya do, baby. Finally breakin' down for me, huh? Good girl—ain't no shame in cravin' what ya need. This pussy's beggin' for it already, I can tell."

You sighed, the annoyance flaring even as arousal pooled low in your belly, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. 

He paused then. "Condom?"

You nodded quickly—you hadn't been on birth control since the divorce. 

Joel rummaged in a drawer besides the bed, pulling out a foil packet with a grin, tearing it open and rolling the latex down his length with practiced ease, the material stretching over his size. 

He smirked at you the whole time, eyes gleaming. "I'll promise ya some lovin' and care, baby. All these thoughts will be gone—poof, like smoke in the wind. Gonna fuck 'em right outta ya, leave ya floatin' on a cloud of nothin' but good feels."

You rolled your eyes, a mix of exasperation and excitement bubbling up as you didn't know what the hell you were doing, but in that moment, it felt right enough. 

He shrugged off his shirt fully now, revealing the full expanse of his belly, soft and heavy, before nudging your legs apart and settling between them, his weight dipping the mattress further. 

"Look at this pretty pussy, all pink and swollen from comin' on my fingers," he murmured.  "Shinin' like a damn pearl in the moonlight filterin' through that window there."

He pushed in then, the blunt head breaching you inch by agonizing inch, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. It burned at first, a delicious ache as he filled you, his girth forcing you open. 

You winced, discomfort flickering across your face, and he paused, one hand stroking your thigh, the other braced besides your head.

"Easy now, honey, breathe through it," he cooed, though his tone was laced with triumph. "I know it's big, but you're takin' it like a real champ."

"Shut up, oh my god," you hissed, embarrassment washing over you, but the words broke into a moan as he bottomed out. 

Joel grinned, sweat beading on his brow, and shifted his weight onto you completely, pinning you beneath his bulk as he began to thrust—slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along your inner walls.

"That's it, beautiful, feel me fuckin' ya deep, chasin' away every damn worry in that head of yours."

His pace quickened, thrusts turning rougher, the bed cracking in time with the slap of skin on skin, his belly rubbing against you with each drive. 

He kept yapping, filthy stream of consciousness pouring out between grunts, his drawl turning breathless but no less annoying unfortunately. 

"Fuck, darlin', this tight hole's milkin' me good—gonna fill this rubber up with my cum soon, mark ya as mine even if it's just for tonight. You love it, don't ya? Takin' every inch like a pro, moanin' for more."

The words blurred into sensation, your body responding despite the sleaze, hips rising to meet his as pleasure rebuilt, coiling tighter. 

You clenched around him, cries spilling from your lips as it crested, waves of ecstasy crashing through you, your nails raking his back.

Joel followed soon after, groaning loud and guttural, his thrusts stuttering as he came, hips grinding hard against you while he filled the latex with hot spurts. 

He collapsed then, breathing ragged.

After a moment, he pulled out carefully, disposing of the condom with a quick tie and tossed into a nearby trash can. He cleaned himself up with a towel from the floor, wiping away the sweat and stickiness, before turning back to you. 

You laid there all breathless, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp, the emotional high crashing into a wave of shame that made you curl inward. 

You rolled your eyes at his gaze and turned away, burying your head into the pillow, the scent of him overwhelming as regret whispered in your ear:

What had you done, giving in like this?

Joel noticed immediately, his voice softening as he reached out, hand resting on your shoulder. 

"Hey...did I hurt ya? What happened, honey? You were all lit up like fireworks a minute ago, and now you're hidin' like a scared kitten."

You mumbled something into the pillow, the words muffled. He pulled you back gently, wrapping you in his arms again, that unexpected tenderness cutting through the post-climax haze like a balm. 

You didn't cry, but you let out a big sigh, looking at a corner of the van. 

The empty apartment, the signed papers, the life unraveling like frayed thread. It all came crashing down on you. 

What had you done to deserve this?

You muttered against his shirt, voice muffled and broken, "I got divorced." 

The words hung there, exposed, the rain seeming to pause in sympathy.

Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheek with surprising care, though his grin crept in, sleazy but laced with a sweetness that caught you off guard. 

His eyes softened, just a fraction, and he murmured, "Oh, baby."

"God dammit, that mother fucker was sure as hell a dumbass to let you go like that," he said. "I mean, look at ya—pretty as a peach in July, all soft curves and fire in them eyes. He'd have to be blind and stupid to toss away a woman like you." 

You couldn't help it—a laugh bubbled up.

His words were filthy in their bluntness, annoying in their endless sprawl, but they lightened the mood, pulling you from the edge. 

So, you two stayed like that for a while, wrapped in his arms, the van's heater humming as the rain drummed on, his hand stroking your back in lazy circles until your breaths evened out.  -

The next day, he slipped his phone number into your palm while you were still asleep, pressed a quick kiss into your hair, muttered something about needing to get moving before his boss 'chewed him out like a dog with a bone,' and then left the van quietly so you could keep sleeping.

And when you came home again, disgust started to coil in your gut, sharp and unrelenting. 

Was this who you were now? 

Divorced once, the ink barely dry on those papers, and already fucking strangers in the back of a van just to numb the ache? 

The shame washed over you in waves, hot and suffocating, but tangled in that was something far worse—the admission that it had felt good. 

Too good.

Joel chased away those shadows in your mind, his kisses, sleazy as they were, had landed soft, pulling you under until the pain dulled to a distant hum. The way he pleasured you, something you haven't felt in years. 

You didn't cry. 

You never let yourself. Crying felt like a crack in the armor, and you couldn't afford to fall apart—not now, not ever. Not even as you got fired the next day.

Your boss's voice droned through the office like white noise—too many sick days, too little output, pack your things and leave. 

You only nodded numbly, the words sliding off of you like rain on glass, and drove home in silence, the radio off, the engine's hum your only companion in that moment. 

And there you sat in your apartment:

Divorced. Fucked by a random man in his rusty van. And now, fired.

Where was the perfect wife from years ago, the one with the husband who kissed her goodnight in their beautiful house, the one with plans and stability woven into every corner? 

Still, no tears came. 

You could remember how hard it had been, those days stretching like no end in near, each one heavier than the last, the weight of unraveling pressing down until breathing felt like a chore.

And in that moment all your eyes could see Joel's number on the coffee table, staring up at you like a dare. 

You thought about it for two full days, fingers hovering over your phone in the quiet hours, the what ifs swirling in your head. 

What would happen if you called? 

He would say some sleazy, stupid shit. Tease you in that obnoxious tone until you rolled your eyes. And then? He would ask to fuck. 

You felt so fucking stupid even considering it—chasing distraction from a man who probably saw you as just another notch—but god, he numbed the pain, turned the sharp edges soft, if only for a night.

"Now, who the hell is this callin' me up? I swear to the good Lord above, if this is one of them scam artists tryin' to fleece old folks outta their hard earned cash, you're barkin' up the wrong damn tree, buddy—ain't got nothin' but cigarettes in my pockets and a van that leaks worse than a sieve."

You swore you didn't want to call. 

But a soft smile tugged at your lips despite the knot in your throat, the sound of him so vividly alive in that sterile quiet of your space. 

"Joel," you said softly.

There was a beat of silence, then a low chuckle, lazy and smug. "Well, I'll be damned, if it ain't my favorite troublemaker callin' me up outta the blue. Here I was, sweatin' bullets thinkin' I'd scared you off for good with all my big talk and bigger belly." He said. "Hell, I been thinkin' 'bout you non-stop, beautiful, wonderin' if you'd come to your senses and give ol' Joel a ring. What's the word? You need a laugh? A ride? Somethin' more...interestin'?"

He talked and talked, words tumbling out in that endless, annoying stream, painting pictures with his charm.

Suddenly, the words spilled from you, unbidden. 

"I got fired."

"Lord have mercy," Joel growled, the playfulness dipping into something almost genuine. "Fired? Shit, darlin', that's a raw deal if I ever heard one. You holdin' up alright? Tell me what happened, or hell, don't—ain't gotta spill it all if you don't want. But listen here, you sound like you could use a pick-me-up, and I know just the thing. You need me to swing by and scoop you up?"

He'd been thinking about that one thing again, the heat of bodies and the escape it promised, 

but in the ache echoing through your chest, maybe that's exactly what you needed—a distraction. 

So you whispered into the phone, "Yes."

-

"Goddamn, darlin'," he drawled, voice muffled against your wetness. "You taste like honey straight from the hive—sweet and sticky, makin' a man forget his own damn name. Let it go now, yeah? Tell ol' Joel what's eatin' at you 'bout that job. What'd they do to my girl, huh?"

It ached once inside your stomach when he said 'my girl' but it was quickly overshadowed by his tongue diving over your clit. 

Joel's broad shoulders were wedged between your thighs, his calloused hands gripping the soft flesh there, thumbs pressing into your skin that sent shivers up your spine. 

Tongue flat and broad, he licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy, savoring the slick folds with a groan that vibrated through your core. 

No words were said from the drive over—just his knowing grin as he manoeuvred his truck in front of his van. 

And what happened next, didn't surprise you. 

"C'mon, tell ol' joel what's bothering you."

You exhaled a shaky breath, fingers threading into his salt-and-pepoer hair, the strands coarse under your palms as the first waves of pleasure loosened the knots in your chest. 

"The...the endless meetings," you murmured, hips twitching upwards into his face, the words fracturing on a gasp as he hummed approval, the vibration sending sparks along your nerves. "Talking in circles, nothing ever changing..."

He didn't stop, couldn't—tongue thrusting shallowly now, lips sealing around your clit to suck with rhythmic pulls that made your thighs quiver against his ears.

"That's it, beautiful, keep talkin'. What else? Gimme the dirt—bet they had you runnin' ragged like a dog chasin' its tail."

His free hand slid up your belly, palm warm and heavy, thumb brushing the underside of your breast in lazy strokes, grounding you even as he unraveled you. 

"Boss...always breathing down my neck," you continued. "Criticising everything, like I was invisible until I screwed up. And the hours—god, the hours bleeding into nothing."

Joel growled low, the sound feral and approving, doubling his efforts: tongue flicking rapidly over your clit while two thick fingers eased into you, curling to stroke that sweet spot inside you. 

Confessions started spilling freer now: "Colleagues whispering, promotions going to the loudest liars, feeling like I was drowning in paperwork that meant jack shit"—until the dam broke.

Orgasm crashed over you like a sudden storm, thighs clamping around his head as you came on his face, pulsing waves of release soaking his beard and lips. 

You cried out, back bowing off of the mattress. 

Joel pulled back slowly, chin glistening, eyes  triumphant. "Fuck me, beautiful, that was a sight—comin' apart like Fourth of July, all fireworks and no holdin' back." He drawled. 

He stood up then, the mattress dipping under his weight and rummaged in a nearby drawer, pulling out a towel, and dabbed gently at your thighs, cleaning your release with care, his touch lingering just enough to tease without pushing.

You sat up slowly, limbs heavy with afterglow, watching him through half lidded eyes; his belly strained against his shirt, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow catching the dim light filtering through the curtains. He caught your gaze and grinned, tossing the towel aside. 

"Well, hell, I'm gonna miss ya as my lunch buddy now that you're footloose and free."

You smirked, a playful spark cutting through the haze, even as surprise flickered at your own words tumbling out.

"You got my number now."

Why did it sound like that?

Like you two were something official...

"Yeah," he drawled simply. "Gimme a sec—gonna wash up."

He walked towards the tiny bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone with the hush.

Your eyes wandered and wandered then, tracing the faded photos pinned to a corkboard above the sink—mementos amid the chaos of tools and takeout wrappers. 

One caught your eye: a faded snapshot of a blonde girl, no more than eight, gap-toothed smile besides a younger Joel, his arm slung around her shoulders, both squinting into  the sun at what looked like a county fair. 

"Is that your daughter?" you asked when he emerged, towel slung over his shoulder, voice light and curious, no weight behind it—you didn't know him and you didn't want to push it. 

Joel froze mid-step, the easy smirk fading, his face hardening into lines etched deep by time and loss. 

The air thickened, a sudden stretch of silence between you. 

"Yeah," he said finally, voice low. "Lost her a long time ago."

You went silent then, nodding once, gaze dropping to the rumpled sheets.

This was the only time you ever heard about Joel's daughter. The rest was whispers and rumours from the bar. Even today, Joel never wanted to talk about it. And you didn't push him. 

Joel cleared his throat after a beat and headed toward the narrow kitchen at the front.

"Hell, this bastard's hungry now—mouth's all worked up, but I ain't got nothin' but some sad ass lookin' tomatoes, a hunk of cheese that's probably seen better days, and fuckin' bread that's more hole than loaf." His sleaze returned, trying to lighten the mood. 

You rose quietly, padding after him on bare feet, and leaned against the counter's edge. "Let me make you something. I don't need more than that."

He stared at you for a beat, something unguarded flickering in his eyes before he shoved it down. But you caught the way his features grew soft. 

-

By the third time it happened, you stopped pretending it was an accident. 

Joel had spent the days between calling you nonstop to complain about anything he could think of— payments, deliveries, the guys in the warehouse—just rambling into your ear until you fell asleep from sheer boredom.

You remember being deep in your job search—hours of scrolling through listings that blurred together into rejection and possibility—when your thoughts started to distract you again.

The phone buzzed on the coffee table, jolting you from the haze, Joel's name lighting up the screen like an uninvited spark.

"Honey, you ain't gonna believe the bullshit I dealt with today—had this asshole at the site yappin' about permits like he owns the damn place, breathin' down my neck while I'm tryin' to weld a frame that won't hold up to a stiff breeze. Swear to God, if I had to listen to one more word 'bout codes and inspections, I'd have shoved that clipboard where the sun don't shine. Anyway, enough of my griping—how's that fancy job hunt goin'?"

Bla bla bla and more bla. 

You rolled your eyes.

But there was a pause then, his breath catching just a fraction, the bravado softening into something almost shy.

"Listen, uh... you wanna come over tonight? Or I could swing by and pick ya up? Ain't pushin', just...thought maybe we could unwind, y'know?"

You sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room, the promise you'd made to yourself after the last time—no more distractions, no more surrendering to the pull of his rough warmth—cracked under the strain of solitude. 

"Yeah," you said finally, voice steadier than you felt. "Pick me up."

So...you landed in his van again. 

His lips met yours with a hunger tempered by familiarity.

You melted into it, hands finding his neck, fingers tangling into his strands as the kiss deepened—tongues brushing in lazy exploration, breaths mingling hot and ragged in the small space.

You pressed closer, the scratch of his beard against your skin a grounding rasp, the make-out stretching slowly, bodies shifting on the bed until you were half in his lap. 

Breathless, Joel pulled back first, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours. 

"I was thinkin'...we could make this somehow official. Nothin' serious, mind you—just fuckin' around and stuff when we need it, y'know? Keep the loneliness at bay without all the messy strings." He grinned, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in it.

You laughed, the sound light and disbelieving, echoing softly in the van's cocoon. 

"Are you serious? You want me to be your fuck buddy?" 

The term hung absurd in the air, but it pulled a chuckle from him too, his eyes crinkling further.

"Yeah... why not? If we're gonna keep doin' this, we might as well call it what it is. Ain't promisin' the world, but hell, I could be your go-to when the night's too damn quiet."

You looked at him then, really looked—the way he held his gaze steady despite the sleaze, while you remembered the care in his hands after that first unraveling, how he wiped away the evidence of your surrender with a tenderness no one else had offered. The way his presence drowned out that hollow ache, letting you forget the spin of your life for stolen hours.

How were you able to numb those thoughts otherwise?

How could you deal with this loneliness eating you from the inside? 

"Yeah," you said, the word simple and sure, sealing the pact with another kiss.

You remember that you were left wondering, even then, if this was just how Joel was—if he took care of everyone like that, if he softened for anyone who crossed his path. You told yourself not to read into it, not to mistake kindness for anything else. You assumed he was like this with all the people he let close.

You didn't know he'd cut them all off the same week he met you. All women, all men he hooked up with. 

You didn't know you were the exception.

You didn't know he'd never been gentle for anyone else.

And you...you saw or still see him as temporary.

A placeholder.

Someone you'll leave behind once you finally get your life back.

You downloaded a dating app that same evening you agreed to the arrangement with Joel. 

Two people agreeing to keep things simple, and only one of them caring too much.

-> If you'd like to be tagged for this series, please let me know!!!

i'm sooooo bad at past tense stuff so i hope this isn't super confusing and just somewhat understandable. I also hope this met yall's expectations on how Joel and reader met. This is how i always had it in my mind and well...it'll get angsty🤭🤭

But you know that your dad mentioned that Joel was gonna stop by and pick up some tools he wants to borrow for a weekend project and—that could be nothing unusual, since Joel has been like an uncle to you while growing up but right now with the house so empty and your thoughts running, you find yourself giving in to that secret itch, straddling your old stuffed bear on the bed.

That plush toy, with its threadbare fur and button eyes, has been your guilty escape for years, especially with thoughts of Joel creeping into your fantasies back then—his broad shoulders, that deep voice, the way he handles everything around the house while having that strict, authoritative way about him—the same tone your dad uses, only sharper, meaner, and somehow aimed always right at you.

Your skirt is bunched around your waist, panties tugged aside, and you're rocking slowly, the soft seam of the bear's belly pressing juuuust right against your aching clit.

But lost in the rhythm...you do not hear the front door opening downstairs.

Heavy footsteps echo up the stairs, pausing outside your door. A knock—light, hesitant.

"Hey, kiddo? Your dad around? He said he'd leave them tools in the kitchen, but I figured I'd check up here too." Joel's voice; that thick, rough, southern drawl wrapping around the words like warm gravel. 

Before you can even respond, the door creaks open, and there he is...tall and big, flannel shirt sleeves rolled up over forearms corded with muscle, jeans hugging his solid thighs. 

His eyes widen as he takes in the scene: you frozen mid-grind, thighs spread over the bear, your face flushing hot with embarrassment.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he growls, "What in the hell are you doin', girl? Humpin' away on some goddamn stuffed bear like a bitch in heat? Your daddy'd skin you alive if he saw this shit." 

He doesn't yell. Yet. But there's an edge to it, stern, like he's caught you sneaking cookies, not this. 

His jaw tightens, and he averts his eyes for a beat, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, the picture of a man wrestling with himself. 

'Shouldn't even be in here. This ain't right. Girl's barely outta her teens, and here I am, starin' at... fuck.' Guilt flashes across his weathered face, creasing those lines around his eyes, but his boots stay rooted to the floorboards. 

He doesn't back out. Instead, his gaze flicks back to you, conflicted, a flicker of something darker stirring beneath the disapproval—his jeans tensing slightly at the crotch, betraying him.

You scramble to pull your skirt down, heart pounding, but the words stick in your throat. 

"Joel, I—it's not what it—" 

He steps closer, slow, like he's approaching a skittish animal, his big frame making the room feel small. 

"Save the excuses, honey. What would your daddy think, huh? Me walkin' in on his little girl like this, all desperate and spread out on a damn toy? He trusts me to look after you when he's out, not to...hell, this is a mess." His tone's firm, paternal almost, laced with that sternness, but there's a coo in the way he says 'honey,' softening the rebuke just a touch. 

He reaches out, his large hand gentle as he grips your upper arm, pulling you off the bear with ease. 

The toy tumbles to the side, fur matted with your slickness, and you stand there on shaky legs, panties still to the side, feeling tiny next to him.

"Now, you listen here," he says, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed besides him as he lowers his weight onto the mattress. 

His thigh presses against yours, warm and solid, and you can feel the heat radiating from him—the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans, impossible to ignore. 

"You're better than this, sweetheart. Rubbin' yourself raw on some childhood relic 'cause those boys at school ain't cuttin' it? That's no way to learn about your body." He pauses, hand resting on your knee, thumb traicng slow circles. "But actin' like your uncle, I gotta teach you right. Can't have you hurtin' yourself on nothin' but fluff."

Your breath hitches at the contact, arousal pooling hotter despite the embarrassment. 

"Joel, please...I didn't mean for you to see," you whisper, but your eyes drop to the bulge in his pants, betraying your thoughts.

He chuckles low, a rumble in his chest, but it's not cruel—more like a man who's seen too much and knows how to handle it. 

"Oh, I see plenty, girl. And that pretty face all flushed? Makes a man wanna help." His hand slides up your thigh, calluses rough but careful, pushing your skirt higher, taking a peek of your pussy. "But first, a little reminder of what happens when you get into trouble. Over my knee—c'mon now."

He pats his lap sternly, but his eyes soften. "It'll sting, but you'll thank me later, honey."

Trembling, you drape yourself across his lap, ass up, the position exposing you fully as your skirt flips over. He's so, so big—your small frame fits perfectly over his thick thigh and you feel his hardness press against your belly, a promise of what's to come. 

"Good girl, takin' this like you should," he murmurs, praise slipping in before the first smack lands—firm but measured, the crack echoing softly. It stings, heat blooming, and you yelp, tears pricking your eyes.

"Easy now," he coos, hand rubbing the spot immediately after. "That's for bein' sneaky in your daddy's house. He raised you all good—don't need you ruinin' it on toys."

Another spank, a bit harder, on the other cheek, and you squirm, the friction against his cock making him groan quietly. 

"There you go, your skin's turnin' pink so pretty."

He alternates, five or six measured swats, each followed by a stroke or a soft word—"Breathe through it, baby, you're doin' fine" building the burn without overwhelming.  

Tears well up, spilling hot down your cheeks, and he notices, thumb brushing one away when you turn your head. 

"Cryin' already, huh?" He chuckles. 

By the end, your ass throbs, red and sensitive, panties soaked through. 

He helps you up gently, but his eyes darken as he tugs the fabric aside, exposing your dripping folds, middle finger touching your lips. 

"So wet from a spankin'. Pussy's all shiny and swollen—too sweet for what those boys got, I bet. But I can fix that, teach you how a real man handles it."

His middle finger stays between your folds as he stands, unzipping his jeans, his cock jumping free—massive, thick and veined, easily bigger than anything you've ever had. 

"Back on that bear, c'mon" he orders, guiding you with a hand on your waist. "Gonna show you the difference, but you grind nice and slow—learn to build it just right." 

You straddle the toy again, the fur already damp and sticky from before, a yucky reminder as it clings to your slick skin. 

Lowering yourself, you begin to rub tentatively, the plush dragging against your clit in messy slides—gross, the way it mats further with your arousal, but thrilling under his watch.

Joel positions himself behind you on the bed, his weight making it dip, hands spanning your hips easily. 

"That's it, babygirl, move those hips," he praises, voice gravelly as his cockhead nudges your entrance, hot and blunt. But he doesn't thrust yet—teases, sliding along your folds. "Feel how big I am? Your little hole's flutterin' so scared but wantin'. Your daddy would have my hide for this, but you need teachin'—can't let you settle for less."

Guilt flickers in his tone, but he presses forward, just the tip nudging you, stretching your tight walls with a burn that makes you gasp.

"Oh—Joel, it's too much," you whimper, tears starting again, body tensing as you grind on the bear, the fur chafing wetly, adding to the overstimulation.

"Shh, easy, sweetheart," he coos, one hand stroking your back tenderly while the other fists your hair lightly, not yanking hard—just guiding your head back to arch you. "Breathe, honey. You're so tight, squeezin' like you were made for this fat cock. Just the head—feel it? Push back slow now."

He inches deeper on your movement, talking you through each bit: "There, darlin', another inch. Your pussy's openin' up so good, even if it hurts a lil'. Cry if you need to; those tears tell me you're feelin' it right." 

He groans when you sob, his hips twitching, but he keeps it paternal, praising: "Good girl, takin' your lesson."

One hand grips your hips, his cock entering your walls. "Going deeper now—yeah, juuuust like that."

You rock on the bear, the wetness intensifying—the plush soaked, strands sticking to your thighs and folds, a filthy grind that makes squelching sounds with each roll. It's degrading, the childhood toy turned lewd, but his voice anchors you. 

"Grind harder on that thing," he instructs, meaner now. "but don't you dare to cum yet. Earn it by lettin' me fill you proper." 

He sinks halfway, the stretch agonizingly full, your small hole straining around his girth. 

"What would your daddy say? Hm? His girl stretched on her uncle's dick."

Tears stream freely now, mixing pain and pleasure as he bottoms out finally, balls resting against the bear's fur. 

"All in—feel me in your belly? Hold still, darlin', adjust to it." He holds, stroking your sides, cooing praises: "Proud of you, takin' every inch like a champ." 

Then, after a while, thrusts start—slow drags out, then pushes in, talking through them: "Out easy...easy. Now in...deep. That's it." 

You cry harder, the dual sensations overwhelming—the bear's damp fur rubbing your clit in sticky, gross friction, his massive length pounding relentlessly. 

"That's it...real deep." He whispers. 

"Joel—please, it hurts so good," you sob, grinding down.

"Yeah? Tell me more, honey," he urges, hand leaving your hair to cup your breast, thumbing your nipple. "How's that big cock feel compared to your toy? Deeper than any boy could go—gonna make you forget 'em all." 

His pace builds, hips snapping, but he denies you—slowing when you clench. 

"Not yet, babygirl. Hold it for me. Cry those pretty tears but don't cum." 

Minutes drag, drawn out with his mix: harsh commands like 'Take it harder—learn it, that's it.' and tender coos like 'Almost there, baby, you're perfect.'

Your tears straining your cheeks, your cunt clenching down, as you try to hold the orgasm.

"Milking me so well. Pussy is eager to cum, huh?" He asks, stroking your sides. His thrusts quicken, head pressing right into sweet spot in you.

Finally, as your body quakes, he growls approval. 

"Alright, cum now, honey. Real slow. Let go around my cock and on that bear." His thumb presses your clit against the plush, rubbing through the mess, while he pushes his cock deep into your cunt. You shatter—screaming, tears flooding, grinding wildly as waves crash, his thumb amplifying the release. 

Joel follows, burying even deeper, cock releasing hot spurts and filling you up slowly. "That's it, here it comes. Take it real deep into that small pussy."

He collapses over you briefly then, breath hot on your neck, cock still releasing the smallest amounts of cum into you. He pulls out slightly, watching everything drip down onto the bear. 

"Your dad's gonna kill me," he mutters, his hand strokes your back almost tenderly. "But you needed that lesson. Don't let me catch you on that toy again—unless I'm here to fix it."

I feel like i could've made him a bit meaner...but idk.

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @susieqorion24 @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl @begginforthread @pinkangelglitterdusttt @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @madnessofadaydreamer @sadie6sinks6slut @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

Friday had a way of loosening men up in all the worst ways.

By noon, the air smelled like cut lumber, diesel, sweat, and sawdust, the kind of smell that clung to skin long after the day was over. Hammers rang out in uneven bursts, a nail gun snapped somewhere near the back, and country music crackled low from a radio somebody had balanced on an upside down bucket by the porch steps.

Joel stood near the stack of framing lumber with a pencil tucked behind one ear and a tape measure hanging from his belt, scanning over the plans in his hand with the kind of focus that made most men think twice before interrupting him.

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” one of the younger guys called from the far side of the site, loud enough for half the crew to hear. “If I’m takin’ her somewhere expensive, least she can do is not make me sit in the damn car for forty-five minutes waitin’ on her.”

A couple of snorts of laughter answered him.

Joel didn’t look up right away. He kept his eyes on the plans, jaw set, trying to decide whether the floor joists were gonna be a bigger problem than the mouths on his crew.

“She ain’t even late in a normal way,” another guy said, dragging a gloved hand across his forehead. “Nah, it’s always some little emergency. ‘Babe, I gotta redo my eyeliner.’ ‘Babe, I don’t like my hair.’” He pitched his voice higher in a cruel imitation. “I’m starvin’ by the time we leave the house.”

That got more laughter.

Tommy, who was up on the temporary decking checking measurements, sighed loud enough for Joel to hear. “Here we go.”

Joel still didn’t say anything.

He should have. He knew that. He knew the shape of this kind of conversation and exactly where it usually went. But sometimes, if you cut in too early, it only encourages idiots to perform for each other. Men like that got louder when they thought they had an audience.

“Mine puts on lipstick to go buy milk,” another one said. “Milk. From the damn grocery store. I told her, sweetheart, the dairy aisle is gonna fall in love with you.”

The laugh that followed was uglier than the last one.

Joel’s eyes lifted.

He knew these boys. That was the thing. Boys, most of them. Old enough to swing a hammer, young enough to still mistake being dismissive for being funny. He’d worked with all kinds over the years: good workers, lazy workers, drunks, hotheads, quiet ones, fools. The loudest were usually the least sure of themselves. Had to fill the air with something before anybody noticed there wasn’t much beneath it.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to listen to it.

“Hell,” the first one went on, encouraged now, “I don’t even get it. They complain they ain’t got enough time, then they spend two damn hours in the bathroom paintin’ themselves like they’re headed to some red carpet thing.”

Joel folded the plans once.

Another voice chimed in. “And then you gotta tell ’em they look pretty like you ain’t been lookin’ at the same face for three years.”

Tommy winced and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

That was enough.

Joel started walking before he even fully decided to. He stopped a few feet from the group gathered around the sawhorses—three of the younger subcontractors and one laborer with more confidence than sense—and looked at each of them in turn.

Nobody spoke.

Joel nodded once. “Y’all done?”

The guy in the baseball cap gave a half shrug, half grin that died fast under Joel’s stare. “We’re just talkin’, man.”

Joel’s face didn’t change. “Ain’t what I asked.”

Silence.

He slipped the folded plans under one arm. “I said, are y’all done.”

“Yeah,” one of them muttered.

Joel took another step closer. “Then maybe y’all can get back to work and quit runnin’ your mouths long enough to remember I’m payin’ you to build a house, not stand around bitchin’ about women who apparently still choose to go home with you.”

Tommy turned away, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide a grin.

One of the younger guys, John maybe, ducked his head. “We were kiddin’.”

Joel fixed him with a look. “That so?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joel hated being called sir. Normally he’d say so. Right now he let it stand.

He hooked his thumbs through his belt and looked between them. “Tell me somethin’. You got a woman at home who takes time gettin’ ready to go out with you, and your first thought is to complain?”

Nobody answered.

“That woman picked out a dress, did her hair, stood in front of a mirror decidin’ she wanted to look nice, and you somehow made that an inconvenience to you.” His voice stayed level, but the disappointment in it landed harder than if he’d shouted. “That what we’re doin’ now?”

The laborer with the red bandana shifted on his feet. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Joel’s eyes cut to him. “That’s usually when a man oughta think a little harder about what’s comin’ outta his mouth.”

Tommy climbed down from the decking, landing beside them with a thud. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t need to. He knew Joel well enough to hear the line in his voice that meant this wasn’t just irritation anymore.

Joel went on, “You wanna know what I hear?” He tapped two fingers against the rolled plans. “I hear a bunch of fools complainin’ that somebody gives enough of a damn to wanna look good standin’ next to ’em.”

That got their attention.

One of them tried to laugh it off. “It ain’t that deep, Joel.”

Joel turned his head slowly. “No?”

“No, I just mean—”

“I know what you mean.” He took a breath through his nose. “You mean you’re too young and too selfish to understand that not everything a woman does is for your convenience.”

The site has gone quiet now.

Even the men who hadn’t been part of the conversation were listening, pretending not to.

Joel looked down at the open toolbox on the sawhorse, then back at them. “Some of you got girlfriends. Some of you got wives. And near as I can tell, not one of you sounds near grateful enough for the women keepin’ your lives stitched together when you go home actin’ like this.”

Nobody met his eyes.

“Maybe she takes too long in the bathroom,” Joel said. “Maybe she changes clothes three times before dinner because she wants to feel pretty. That ain’t foolishness. That ain’t vanity. That’s her wantin’ to feel good in her own skin, and if your reaction to that is to stand around mockin’ her with other men, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

Caleb swallowed. “We weren’t mockin’ them.”

Joel gave him a look so dry it bordered on pity. “Son, if you’re gonna lie, at least do it convincingly.”

Tommy barked a laugh and turned it into a cough.

A few of the older workers smirked into their sleeves.

Joel kept going, because now that he’d started, he knew exactly what was bothering him. It wasn’t just the words. It was the casualness of them. The way men could take something tender and make it small just because they didn’t know how to hold it properly.

“My wife,” he said, and that alone changed the air, made everybody listen closer, “can take as long as she damn well pleases gettin’ ready for anything she wants. Grocery store. Dinner. A walk down the block. I don’t care if she’s puttin’ on lipstick to sit in the livin’ room and watch television. If it matters to her, it matters. End of story.”

That landed.

Because when Joel spoke about you didn’t sound like a man making a point for the sake of winning. He sounded like a man stating a universal truth.

The laborer scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, but women don’t do all that for us anyway.”

Joel’s brow lifted. “Well, congratulations. That’s the first smart thing anybody’s said in five minutes.”

A few snickers broke the tension.

Joel didn’t smile. “No, they don’t do it all for you. That’s exactly the point. Maybe she does some of it for herself. Maybe it’s fun. Maybe it makes her feel confident. Maybe it’s the one damn thing in a day that’s just hers. And maybe instead of complainin’, you oughta learn enough respect to keep your mouth shut and tell her she looks beautiful.”

The man in the cap looked down at his boots. “Alright.”

Joel’s expression hardened. “That ‘alright’ better means somethin’.”

“It does.”

“Good.” He glanced between all of them. “Now pick up your tools and get back to work. We’re behind, and I’ve had about enough of hearin’ how burdensome it is that women continue to exist as full human beings.”

That actually got a real laugh, even from a couple of the guilty ones, though they had the decency to look embarrassed about it.

Joel let the silence sit a beat longer, then pointed at the framing on the east wall. “John, if you’ve got enough energy to complain, you’ve got enough to finish bracin’ that corner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joel’s stare sharpened.

Caleb sighed. “Yes, Joel.”

“Better.”

The group broke apart at last, muttering to each other in lower voices now, heads down, hands moving quicker than before. Tommy stepped up beside Joel and watched them scatter back into usefulness.

For a second neither brother said anything.

Then Tommy glanced at him. “You feel better?”

Joel bent to grab the level off the sawhorse. “Not especially.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched. “You know they’re all scared of you now.”

“They oughta be scared of bein’ stupid in public.”

Tommy laughed under his breath. “That speech about your wife?” He nudged Joel with an elbow. “Bit dramatic.”

Joel shot him a look. “Wasn’t dramatic.”

“No?” Tommy grinned.

Joel set the level against the brace and adjusted it with one hand. “You got somethin’ useful to do, or you plannin’ on botherin’ me the rest of the afternoon?”

Tommy leaned against a stud, folding his arms. “I am doin’ somethin’ useful. I’m watchin’ you pretend that wasn’t personal.”

Joel didn’t bother looking at him. “Go measure somethin’.”

Tommy ignored that completely. “You thought about her, didn’t you?”

Joel checked the bubble on the level, shifted the brace half an inch. “I’m workin’.”

Tommy rocked back on his heels, pleased with himself now. “So when those idiots were yappin’ about women takin’ forever in the bathroom, you were thinkin’ about her sittin’ at the mirror?”

Joel let out a quiet breath and straightened. He should’ve known better than to engage. Tommy had the kind of nosiness only a younger brother could get away with, half affection and half appetite for trouble.

Joel grabbed the drill. “Tommy.”

His brother laughed. “Alright, alright.”

But he didn’t move away yet, and after a moment he said, softer this time, “You know, you were right.”

Joel glanced up and Tommy shrugged one shoulder. 

Joel shook his head, but there was no real heat in it now. “You’re annoyin’.”

“Runs in the family.”

Joel drove the screw in with more force than necessary. “Go to hell.”

Tommy laughed and pushed off the wall at last. “Can’t. I work for my brother.”

Joel watched him go, then looked back out across the site.

Work picked up again in the wake of the interruption. The radio came back into focus. Men shouted measurements, wood scraped against wood, someone swore after dropping a box of nails. The day moved on the way it always did, one task into the next, one hour bleeding into another until the sun shifted.

But Tommy was right.

Of course he’d thought about you.

He had the moment those boys started talking.

He could picture you too easily.

Standing in the bathroom in one of his old shirts, hair pinned back, leaning close to the mirror with that concentrated little crease between your brows. Sitting at your vanity—your vanity, the one he’d built with his own hands after seeing your face fall when the one you wanted sold out before he could order it—surrounded by brushes and powders and little bottles that all looked nearly identical to him and yet somehow never were. Looking over your shoulder to ask him which earring. Holding up two lipsticks and asking if one looked too dark. Smiling when he got the answer wrong but tried anyway.

He never mocked any of it. Never would.

Half the time he didn’t understand what half those products were for, but that had never seemed like a reason to dismiss them. They mattered because they were yours. Because they brought something bright into your face. Because he had learned, over the course of loving you, that attention was a kind of devotion all its own.

That was the part those boys didn’t get.

Loving somebody meant noticing. It meant learning the shape of their rituals, even the ones that didn’t belong to you. It meant understanding that intimacy wasn’t just the big things like the hospital visits, funerals, marriage vows, bad nights or worse mornings.

Sometimes it was remembering the exact height she liked a table because she tended to hunch if it sat too low. Sometimes it was sanding the edge of a drawer three extra times so it wouldn’t catch on her dress. Sometimes it was building something beautiful out of wood and patience because she had looked disappointed for all of two seconds and that had been enough to undo him.

Joel drove another screw into place and exhaled slowly.

He hadn’t meant to build the vanity quite as elaborate as he did.

At first, he’d only intended to make something simple. Clean lines, sturdy legs, decent storage. Then he’d remembered the way your face had lit up describing the one you’d wanted, the little details you liked, the mirror shape, the drawers, the finish. By the end of it, he’d spent nearly three weeks in the garage after work, pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself every time you wandered in and tried to peek beneath the tarp he kept throwing over it.

When he finally brought it inside, you’d looked at him like he’d hung the moon in the bedroom with his bare hands.

That expression had stayed with him. It still did.

“Joel!”

He turned at the shout.

One of the crew was waving him over near the back of the house. Something about the window framing looked off. He tucked the level under his arm and headed that way, slipping back into the rhythm of the job because there was always another problem to solve, another correction to make, another young man to stop from ruining good lumber with bad math.

The afternoon wore down by inches, the light changed and the heat eased. By the time they started packing up, Joel’s shirt was stuck to his back, his shoulders ached, and there was sawdust worked so deep into the lines of his hands it would take a brush to get it out.

He signed off on the delivery order for Monday, checked the lock on the storage trailer, and made sure the site was squared away before anybody left. Tommy came up beside him with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a half finished bottle of water in the other.

Tommy studied him for a moment. “You tell her about this?”

Joel frowned. “About what.”

“The little feminist awakening you had in front of the crew.”

Joel shot him a flat look. “That what you’re callin’ it?”

Tommy grinned. “I’m callin’ it funny as hell. And yeah. You should tell her. She’ll eat that up.”

Joel shook his head and started toward his truck. Tommy followed for a few steps before peeling off toward his own, still smiling to himself like he’d been handed some private joke he planned on keeping.

Joel climbed into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and let the quiet settle around him for a second. He dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes just long enough to feel the day in his bones. Then he started the engine and pulled out onto the road.

The drive home wasn’t long, but it was long enough for his thoughts to drift where they usually did at the end of the week.

To you.

Maybe you’d be on the couch with a blanket over your legs and an episode of the Gilmore Girls half watched because you’d been waiting for the sound of his truck.

God, he could picture it so clearly it almost made his chest ache.

He thought, not for the first time that day, that the men back on that site had no idea how lucky they were if there was somebody waiting for them at all. They have no idea what a privilege it was to be known that intimately by another person. To have your favorite plate set out before you asked. To be greeted by the sound of their voice from the next room.

Joel flexed one hand on the steering wheel.

He thought of you in front of a mirror again.

Of your careful hands. Your patience. The little pleasure you took in things most men would dismiss because they had never learned how to look properly. He thought of how easy it was, in a world this ugly, to sneer at softness just because you didn’t know what to do with it.

He also thought, with a private heaviness he never quite voiced, of how much of your life lived in those little rituals. The tender ordinary things. The things he catalogued without meaning to. The products lined up on the vanity. The order you used them in. The brushes you reached for first. The colors you favored when you were happy, or when you were quiet, or when you wanted him to notice.

Joel always noticed.

And somewhere deep beneath that noticing lived the old anxiety he carried like a second spine, the one that made him prepare for loss even in the middle of joy. It came uninvited, as it always did, whispering its ugly what ifs into the back of his mind. What if one day you were too tired. What if one day your hands hurt. What if one day life turned cruel in some new and inventive way and you couldn’t do these things for yourself anymore.

He hated those thoughts. Hated the shape of them. Hated that fear had taught his mind to brace for impact even when nothing was wrong.

But still he learned.

The names of things. The purpose of things. The order of them. Not because he expected praise for it, and not because he ever intended to say any of this aloud. Only because if the world ever tried to take some small comfort from you, Joel wanted his hands ready, wanted to know enough to step in gently and give it back.

His throat tightened a little, and he swallowed it down.

By the time he turned onto your street, the sun was lower, the sky softening into streaks of amber and pale blue. Home came into view steady and familiar, porch light not yet on, the windows warm with the first signs of evening.

Joel eased the truck into the driveway and killed the engine.

For a second he stayed where he was, one hand still on the wheel, looking at the house like he did every now and then when the day had been long enough to make him feel the full weight of what waited inside it.

His true home.

Then he got out, shut the truck door, and headed for the front porch with sawdust on his boots, tiredness in his shoulders, and the faintest trace of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth for no reason other than the simple fact that he was almost home.

You.

He pushed the front door open with one hand, already loosening up a little at the simple fact of stepping inside, and was met at once by warmth, soft lamplight, and the unmistakable smell of something good waiting in the kitchen. Then, Joel set his keys in the bowl by the door and shrugged out of his jacket.

“Honey?” he called, voice carrying low through the quiet.

“In here!”

Something in your tone made him pause.

A kind of carefully held excitement you were trying, and failing, to disguise as casual. Joel’s mouth pulled almost into a smile before he even saw you. He followed your voice into the kitchen and found you standing near the stove.

There you are, he thought, with that immediate, quiet hit of relief he never quite got used to.

You turned when he appeared in the doorway, and your face lit in a way that still undid him a little, no matter how many times he came home to it. “Hi.”

Joel leaned one shoulder against the frame for a second, just looking at you. “Hi, baby.”

He heard the roughness in his own voice and saw the way your eyes softened at it.

You crossed to him without hesitation, and he opened an arm automatically, catching you against him with all the ease of a long habit. Your hands slid around his middle carefully, as though you knew exactly where the day tended to settle in him, and his palm spread over your back. He bent to kiss the top of your head first, breathing you in, then your temple, then finally your mouth, the kind of kiss that means that he was finally at home now, and home meant you.

“You smell good,” you murmured against his mouth.

Joel huffed a tired laugh. “Smell like sawdust.”

“But it's sexy,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.

That did make him smile. His thumb brushed once at your waist. “That so?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He let his gaze move over your face, lingering a beat too long because something about you felt gently charged tonight.“You been waitin’ on me?”

You widened your eyes with exaggerated innocence. “Maybe.”

Joel studied you. “That look usually means you’re hidin’ somethin’.”

You gasped softly. “I’m offended.”

“No, you ain’t.”

You tried not to grin and failed. Joel watched the smile break across your face and had the strange, familiar thought that if he died tomorrow, this would be the shape of heaven in his head. You in the kitchen, looking pleased with yourself. The light warm on your skin. The house quiet around you both. Something cooking. The weekend beginning at the edges of the room like a blessing neither of you had earned but both of you needed.

He brushed his knuckles along your cheek. “What’s for dinner?”

Your whole expression brightened. “Sit down and I’ll show you.”

That got a low chuckle out of him. “Bossy.”

“Just tonight.”

“That’d be a first.”

You swatted lightly at his arm, laughing, and he caught your wrist before you could move away, tugging you in just enough to kiss you once more, this time with a little more intent, enough to make your breath catch and your fingers curl against his shirt. Then he let you go before either of you leaned too far into it, because there was still dinner on the stove and because he knew that if he stood there kissing you too long after a week like this one, he might never make it to the table.

He washed up at the sink while you moved around the kitchen putting the last things together, and Joel watched you in the window reflection while the water ran over his hands. You kept glancing at him like you had something else to say. Something you were sitting on. He knew you well enough to spot the tells now; the little smile you bit back for no reason, the extra care you took with the plates, the way your body seemed almost too still whenever you were trying not to blurt something out too soon.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you lookin’ like that?” he asked, drying his hands on the dish towel.

You set a plate down. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about two seconds from spoilin’ your own surprise.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Joel pulled out his chair and sat, eyes never leaving you. “Baby.”

You laughed, soft and guilty, and finally brought the plates over. “Fine. Maybe I’m just happy it’s Friday.”

He accepted that with a slight tilt of his head, though they both knew that wasn’t all of it. “That much, I believe.”

Joel took the first bite of the tender meat you've cooked for him and closed his eyes for half a second before he meant to.

You noticed, of course.

“That good?” you asked, trying not to sound too pleased.

He opened his eyes and looked at you over the table. “You fishin’?”

“Yes.”

Joel leaned back slightly in his chair, chewing, making a deliberate show of considering it. “Might be the best thing I’ve eaten all week.”

You laughed, and the sound of it loosened something in him he hadn’t realized was still tight.

That was the thing about Friday nights with you. The workweek wore him down and you gathered him back together. Not all at once. Just piece by piece. A hot meal. Your voice across the table. Your foot brushing his under it. The look on your face when he reached for a second helping like he hadn’t spent the whole drive home pretending he wasn’t hungry.

He told you a little about work. Not too much. Just enough for you to follow the shape of his day. A delivery that came late. A measurement that had to be redone because somebody hadn’t listened the first time. Tommy nearly stepping backward off the decking because he’d turned around too fast while arguing with one of the electricians.

You laughed at that. “Was he hurt?”

“No.”

“Then I can laugh.”

“You already were.”

“I know.”

Joel watched you talk, watched your hands move when you got animated, watched the way you leaned in when you were interested in something he’d said as though there might still be new things to learn about him after all this time. It made something warm and almost painful spread low in his chest. He’d never been very good at making speeches about love. But if anybody had asked him where most of his peace lived, he would’ve had to point right here. To this table. To your voice. To your company at the end of the day.

At some point your foot slid against his calf beneath the table and stayed there.

Joel’s eyes flicked up.

You were smiling down at your plate, pretending not to notice what you’d done.

His mouth twitched. “You bein’ sweet, or are you up to somethin’?”

You looked up, all innocence again. “Can’t it be both?”

He held your gaze for a beat, then reached for his glass. “That answer concerns me.”

“It should.”

He laughed under his breath.

When the plates were nearly empty you rose to clear the table but when Joel started to stand with you out of instinct, you pointed at him.

“Sit.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it. You worked all day. Sit there.”

Joel settled back slowly, one brow raised. “You order me around awfully easy for somebody this small.”

You gathered up the dishes with a smile. “And yet you listen.”

“Sometimes.”

“Most times.”

He gave you a dry look. “Don’t push it.”

You disappeared into the kitchen with the plates, and he sat there listening to the music of you moving around… water running, cabinets opening, cutlery clinking softly against ceramic. Domestics sounds. He loved them with a ferocity he kept mostly to himself.

When you came back, you weren’t empty handed.

Joel’s eyes dropped to the plate you set in front of him, and he went still for half a second.

Not just any pie. Apple pie. His favorite. Still slightly warm, the crust golden, the scent of cinnamon and butter rising up before it had even properly touched the table.

You folded back into your seat trying and failing to look casual. “There’s ice cream too, if you want it.”

Joel looked from the plate to you. “You made pie?”

Your expression softened. “I did.”

“For me.”

The corners of your mouth lifted. “Well, I don’t know many people who get this emotional about apple pie, so yes. For you.”

Something in his face must have shifted, because your own expression gentled further.

Joel glanced back down at the dessert and let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not. “Christ.”

“What?”

He looked at you again. “Nothin’.” His voice came out lower than before. “Just… thank you, baby.”

You leaned your chin into your hand. “You’re welcome.”

He took a bite, closed his eyes and opened them again. “That’s real good.”

Your smile went luminous. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” Another bite. “Dangerously good.”

You watched him with such open fondness it made him shake his head a little and look back at the plate, because being adored that plainly still makes him blush some days. 

“There’s more,” you said after a moment, like you couldn’t possibly hold it in any longer.

Joel looked up, chewing slowly. “More pie?”

You laughed. “No. Although yes, there’s more pie. But that’s not what I meant.”

He set his fork down. “Alright. Go on.”

Your eyes brightened immediately. “I restocked everything.”

He frowned mildly, trying to follow. “Everything.”

“For the weekend.” You started counting off on your fingers. “Coffee. The good kind you like.”

Joel felt an involuntary little stab of gratitude so strong it was almost ridiculous. “You got coffee.”

“I got coffee,” you confirmed. “And beer.”

His brow lifted. “Beer too, huh?”

“And your barbecue chips. And the pretzels you pretend you don’t like that much but somehow always eat. And those peanuts Tommy keeps stealing every time he comes over.”

Joel stared at you for a second, then leaned back in his chair with a quiet exhale, one hand coming up to scrub over his beard. “You’ve been busy.”

Your face softened into something tender. “I wanted you to have a nice weekend.”

There it was again, that precise, deadly thing you did to him without even trying. You said simple sentences that landed somewhere deep because they carried more than the words themselves. I wanted you to have a nice weekend. As if his comfort was something worth planning for. As if the shape of his rest mattered enough for you to think ahead about coffee and snacks and the exact beer he reached for first.

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he said, quieter, “C’mere.”

You got up at once and crossed the space between you, and he drew you gently between his knees, one hand settling at your hip while the other curved around the back of your thigh. He tipped his head back to look at you properly. Your hair had fallen forward a little, your expression open and sweet and expectant, and the simple sight of you there, taking such obvious pleasure in taking care of him, nearly undid him.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said.

“I know.”

His thumb rubbed once over the fabric at your side. “Then why’d you?”

You looked at him like the answer was the easiest thing in the world. “Because I love you.”

Joel’s throat moved.

He knew better than most men how dangerous those words could be when spoken carelessly. How people used them as decoration. As habit. As currency. But you never did. When you said them, you meant them all the way through.

He rested his forehead briefly against your stomach and let the quiet sit. Then he leaned back enough to press a kiss there through your shirt, right above your navel, and felt the little shiver that ran through you.

“You keep this up,” he murmured, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ again that you’re after somethin’.”

You smiled down at him, fingers slipping into his hair. “Maybe I just missed you.”

That, too, he believed.

Joel turned his face and pressed another kiss to the heel of your palm before letting you go. “Alright,” he said, clearing his throat a little as you stepped back. “Now I’m definitely suspicious.”

You laughed, gathered the pie plate, and turned away before he could see too much of whatever was passing over your face. Joel watched you go, watched the sway of your body as you moved around the kitchen, watched the little lightness in you that had only grown since he came through the door.

He knew now with certainty that you had something planned, he just didn’t yet know what shape it would take.

Once everything was cleaned up and the kitchen restored to order, the evening softened around the two of you. Joel checked the locks out of habit, turned off the extra lights, and came back to find you already collecting his towel from the linen closet before he could ask for it. He took it from your hands with a low, amused noise.

“Baby, I can get my own towel.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why am I bein’ supervised?”

You stepped closer and smoothed a hand over the front of his work shirt, over the dust and wrinkles and the tiredness still hanging off him. “Because you’ve had a long week.”

Joel looked down at you. “And?”

“And because I like taking care of you.”

His expression shifted into something softer, more serious. “I know you do.”

You held his gaze for a moment too long, and once again that same curious charge moved through the room. Not enough to name yet. Just enough to feel.

Joel tipped your chin up with two fingers and kissed you slowly, until your body leaned into his and the hem of his shirt bunched a little in your fists. When he pulled back, he lingered close enough that your breath still crossed his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You say that like you’re plannin’ somethin’ while I’m gone.”

You widened your eyes. “Maybe I’m just going to… fold laundry.”

Joel let out a short laugh. “That lie was insultin’.”

“Go shower, Miller.”

The way you said it, bossy and faintly pleased with yourself, made him shake his head as he turned toward the hallway. “Yes, ma’am.”

He heard your little triumphant laugh behind him all the way to the bathroom.

The shower was hot enough to ache pleasantly over his sore body. Joel stood under it longer than usual, one hand braced on the tile, letting the day rinse off him in layers. The dust fell away first, then sweat, then whatever lingering irritation had stayed with him from the workplace. By the time he stepped out, the mirror had fogged over, and the house beyond the bathroom door had gone quiet in that particular evening way that meant you were no longer puttering around downstairs.

He dried off, wrapped the towel low around his waist, and dragged one hand through his damp hair before stepping into the bedroom.

And stopped.

You were waiting for him.

Not in bed, not curled up under the covers with a Jane Austen book or half asleep with the lamp on. You were seated at the bedroom vanity with your back mostly to the door, posture straight, legs crossed at the ankle, like you’d been there long enough to settle into the moment. The vanity itself caught the warm glow from the bedside lamp making you look almost ethereal. He looked at the whole scene at once and felt something inside him go very still.

You’d changed into a nightgown while he was in the shower, your hair arranged just so, your expression reflected in the mirror as you looked at him through it with a smile too small to be innocent.

Joel stayed by the bathroom door for a second, towel slung low, water still cooling on his shoulders. “There it is.”

You turned slightly in the chair. “There what is?”

“The surprise.”

You tried to look confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He huffed a laugh, already moving toward the bed. “Sure you don’t.”

Joel sat down at the edge of the mattress, elbows resting loosely on his knees for a second as he took you in. Then his gaze dropped to the box in your lap—black and white stripes, tissue paper peeking out the top—and his mouth twitched.

“Sephora,” he said.

Your face brightened at once. “I went today.”

“I can see that.”

“You said I should get myself something nice.”

“I did.”

“And I listened.”

That made him smile properly now. “I’m learnin’ that can be dangerous.”

You angled the box toward yourself protectively. “No take backs now, Miller.”

“Ain’t askin’ for any.”

He leaned back slightly, one hand braced on the bedspread, and watched as your fingers slipped beneath the tissue paper with excitement. He recognized that look on you too. The one that made you seem younger and softer all at once.

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to see?”

Joel’s eyes moved from your face to the box and back again. “Baby, you know I got no earthly clue what half that stuff is.”

“I know,” you said sweetly. “That’s why I’m going to explain it to you.”

He laughed under his breath and settled in, already knowing he was done for. “Alright, then.”

And because it was you asking, because it mattered to you, because he loved the sound of your voice when you got excited about something, Joel gave you his full attention.You shifted in the chair until you were facing him a little more fully, one leg tucking beneath you, the Sephora box still balanced carefully in your lap like something precious. Joel stayed where he was at the edge of the bed, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, towel slung low around his waist, watching you with attention.

You dipped a hand into the box and pulled out the first item. “Okay. We’re starting easy.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. “That suggests we ain’t stayin’ easy.”

“We are not.”

He nodded once, resigned already. “Go on, then.”

You held up a sleek bottle. “This is primer.”

Joel frowned faintly. “Primer.”

“Yes.”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his thighs. “Like paint.”

You stared at him for a beat, then sighed. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Well, it’s called primer.”

“It is not a paint primer.”

Joel tipped his head. “How do I know that?”

“Because this one costs thirty eight dollars and if I ever put it on a wall, you’d have me committed.”

That earned a low laugh out of him.

He reached for the bottle, and you handed it over. Joel turned it in his hand, studying the label with the seriousness of a man trying very hard not to look like he was reading another language. “So what’s it do?”

“It goes on before makeup.”

“Hence the name.”

You squinted at him. “You can either be respectful during my presentation, or I can pack everything up and go to bed.”

“Presentation?” he repeated, eyes warm now. “Baby, are you givin’ me a seminar?”

“Yes.” You folded your arms. “And if you’re lucky there’ll be a practical demonstration.”

Joel’s gaze flickered over your face for half a second, before he handed the bottle back. “Now that sounds promisin’.”

You ignored the way your stomach fluttered and went on. “Primer makes everything sit better on the skin. It helps smooth things out, helps makeup last longer, and sometimes it gives you a certain finish.”

He blinked. “A finish.”

“Yes. Glowy. Matte. Blurring. Hydrating.”

Joel was quiet for a second. “That all different from just… face?”

You laughed. “Yes, Joel, that is different from just face.”

He gave a solemn nod. “Alright. Good to know.”

You placed the primer on the vanity and reached into the box again. “Next: concealer.”

Joel watched the little tube appear in your hand. “Lemme guess. Covers somethin’.”

You pointed at him. “See? This is good. You’re learning.”

He leaned back a little, smug enough to annoy you. “I ain’t dumb, darlin’.”

“I didn’t say you were dumb.”

“Your tone did.”

“My tone is educational.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

Joel’s smile deepened, but he let you continue.

“Concealer can be for dark circles, redness, blemishes, whatever.”

His brow furrowed almost immediately. “You don’t have any of those things on your pretty face, baby.”

You stared at him, then softened a little despite yourself. “That’s sweet, but that’s not the point.”

He looked genuinely unconvinced. “Seems like the point exactly.”

“No.” You set the concealer down with a small huff. “The point is not fixing some horrible flaw. It’s just… enhancement. Evening things out. Playing around. Feeling put together.”

Joel nodded slowly, eyes still on your face. “Alright.”

You narrowed yours. “You still look like you disagree.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I can disagree privately.”

“You are not disagreeing privately. Your whole face is disagreeing.”

A laugh escaped him then. “You know my face too well.”

“I do.”

That landed softly between you.

Joel’s gaze stayed on you and you had the strange feeling that he was not just watching you talk… he was memorizing you. The way your fingers handled each item. The way your voice changed when you were explaining something you liked. The way you lit up when he listened properly.

He did listen properly. That was the thing.

You cleared your throat and reached for the next item before the moment got too soft to bear. “Okay. This one is blush.”

Joel nodded. “I know blush.”

“Oh?”

He gestured vaguely toward his own cheekbones. “Pink.”

You blinked at him. “That is both offensively simple and, unfortunately, correct.”

He looked pleased with himself.

You held up a compact and opened it, letting him see the soft rosy color inside. “Blush goes on the cheeks. Sometimes a little on the nose too. Depends on the look.”

“The look,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“You got multiple looks?”

You gave him a flat stare. “Joel.”

“What? I’m askin’ questions.”

“Of course I have multiple looks.”

He held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.”

You turned slightly toward the mirror and tapped your cheek. “Blush can make you look healthy, fresh, sweet, sunkissed, romantic—”

Joel interrupted. “Sweet.”

You glanced back. “Yes.”

He tilted his head. “You already look sweet.”

Your expression betrayed you then, a little smile creeping in despite your best efforts. “You can’t just say things like that in the middle of my explanation.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to be serious.”

Joel looked at you for a beat, taking in your face, your excitement, the slight pink that had risen in your cheeks before you’d even put any actual blush on. “That may be the problem right there, baby.”

You laughed softly and reached into the box again. “Fine. No more compliments until the end.”

“That doesn't sound natural.”

“It’s a rule now.”

“Seems harsh.”

“You’ll survive.”

He considered that. “Debatable.”

You had to look away for a second because the sight of him sitting there barely dressed, all broad shoulders and damp hair and sleepy amusement, making himself the world’s most attentive audience for a makeup breakdown, was almost too lovely to process in one go.

You pulled out a small palette next.

Joel squinted. “That one looks expensive.”

Your face changed instantly. “It was a little expensive.”

“A little.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He extended a hand. “Lemme see.”

You passed it over carefully, and Joel turned the compact in his fingers. The palette was heavier than he expected, the case clicking softly when he opened it. Inside were shades of brown, gold, rose, and deep muted plum, each one arranged so prettily it almost did make sense that you’d looked delighted pulling it out of the bag earlier.

He studied it in silence for a moment.

Then, very seriously: “These are all nearly the same color.”

Your mouth fell open. “Joel!”

“What?”

“They are not.”

He looked at the palette again, then back at you. “Baby, I’m lookin’ at seven versions of brown.”

You snatched it from him with exaggerated offense. “This is taupe. This is a soft rose. This is bronze. This is a champagne shimmer. This one is mauve.”

Joel blinked slowly. “That last one was definitely still brown.”

“It was not.”

“Looked brown from here.”

“You are impossible.”

He grinned then. “Maybe. But I’m listenin’.”

You held the palette protectively against your chest. “Eyeshadow,” you informed him, in the tone of someone recovering from a great insult, “is what you put on your eyelids.”

“I gathered.”

“It can change the whole mood of a look.”

He raised a brow. “Can it?”

“Yes. Soft. Smoky. Dramatic. Fresh. Sultry.”

Joel’s expression altered at that last word, barely. “Sultry, huh?”

You pretended not to notice. “Yes.”

“And you’re sayin’ that like it’s a normal thing to tell me while sittin’ there lookin’ like that.”

“Like what?”

He looked you over once, slowly enough to make your pulse jump, then brought his eyes back to your face. “Like you know exactly what you’re doin’.”

The silence that followed lasted a beat too long.

Then you cleared your throat again. “Anyway. Moving on.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.

You pulled out a fluffy brush, and his brow furrowed. “That one for paint too?”

You gasped. “Joel!”

“I’m kiddin’.”

“No, you’re not. You think all of this is construction supplies in disguise.”

He looked at the brush. “You gotta admit there’s some overlap.”

“There is absolutely no overlap.”

“That primer still sounds suspicious.”

You shook your head, smiling helplessly now. “This is an eyeshadow brush.”

He gave the brush a dubious look. “Seems too soft to do much.”

“It’s not supposed to do much. It’s supposed to blend.”

“Blend what?”

“The eyeshadow.”

Joel leaned back and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Alright, hold on. So first you put color on your eyelid.”

“Yes.”

“Then you use another tool to sort of… smear it around.”

“It is not smearing. It is blending.”

He nodded gravely. “My mistake.”

You pointed the brush at him. “Mock me again and I’ll use this against you.”

Joel looked at the brush, then at you. “Sweetheart, I am not afraid of a tiny fluffy weapon.”

You fought a smile and lost badly. “You should be.”

“What, you gonna do my makeup in my sleep?”

That image hit you so suddenly and vividly that you nearly laughed. “Honestly? You’d look gorgeous.”

“Would I?”

“Yes. Maybe a nice neutral eye to enhance your hazel eyes or something soft and romantic with berry tones.”

Joel gave you a long look. “You flirtin’ with me or threatenin’ me?”

“Bit of both.”

“Mm.”

His voice dropped on that little hum in a way you very deliberately chose not to think about too hard.

Instead, you kept digging through the box and grabbed a lipstick. “Okay. This one you know.”

Joel’s gaze landed on the tube and warmed immediately with recognition. “Now that one I know.”

You looked pleased. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He pointed lazily. “That’s similar to the color you wear when we go out somewhere nice.”

You paused.

Then slowly: “What?”

Joel shrugged, like this was obvious. “The darker one.”

You blinked at him. “You know this shade?”

“Could pick it out in a lineup.”

You stared.

His expression shifted, a little wary now. “What?”

“Joel.”

“What.”

You turned fully toward him on the stool, lipstick in hand. “Are you telling me you can identify my lipstick shades?”

He frowned as if the question itself were strange. “Some of ’em.”

“Some of them?”

“Well, not by all the names,” he said. “Those names are ridiculous.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean, ridiculous?”

He held out a hand, and when you passed him the tube he read the label aloud with a face like he was being personally offended by it. “‘Rosewood Whisper.’” He looked up. “That’s not a lipstick shade. That’s some fancy car freshener scent.”

You laughed so hard you had to grab the edge of the vanity.

Joel kept going, encouraged now. “Y’all never just call somethin’ red. No. It’s ‘midnight garnet seduction’ or ‘velvet sin’ or ‘spiced fig dream.’ Sounds like a fancy cocktail menu.”

You were laughing openly now, shoulders shaking.

He pointed the lipstick at you. “And I’m right.”

“You are a menace.”

“I’m observant.”

“That is not the word I would’ve used.”

Joel smiled and handed it back. “It’s the one I’m usin’.”

You twisted the lipstick up and held it near your mouth. “So which one is this, then?”

He squinted. “That’s not the darker dinner one.”

“No.”

“And it’s not the peachy one you wear with that cream sweater.”

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

Joel blinked once. “What.”

“You know the peachy one?”

He shifted slightly on the bed, suddenly looking like a man who had stumbled into revealing more than intended. “Baby, I got eyes.”

“No, no. That’s not just eyes. That’s data collection.”

A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. “You say that like it’s criminal.”

“It is deeply suspicious.”

Joel looked down, then back up at you. “You want me not to notice?”

It got you in the chest a little.

Your voice softened without permission. “No.”

He nodded once. “Then I'll keep noticing.”

You looked at him for a moment, then turned back toward the mirror before he could see too much on your face. “Well,” you said, trying for lightness and getting only halfway there, “for the record, this one is newer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And it’s not for every day.”

Joel watched your reflection. “Special occasion?”

You glanced at him in the mirror. “Maybe.”

His eyes held yours there for one quiet second before you broke the look and set the lipstick down.

You reached for another item. “Okay, next: highlighter.”

Joel exhaled. “That one also sounds like office supplies.”

“It does not.”

“It absolutely does.”

“It makes the high points of the face catch the light.”

He nodded slowly. “Now that, I understand.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Sure.” He pointed gently toward you. “Bit on the cheekbone. Maybe here.” He gestured near the inner corners of his own eyes with shocking accuracy. “Makes things brighter.”

You stared at him, deadpan.

Joel’s mouth twitched. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

“How do you know that?”

He shifted one shoulder. “Seen you do it.”

“When?”

His expression was almost offended now. “What d’you mean, when?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “No, I just—I don’t know. I didn’t realize you were paying that much attention.”

Joel went quiet.

Then he said as a matter of fact, “I pay attention to you all the time.”

The words settled over the room.

There was no vanity in the way he said it. He sounded like a man stating something as ordinary and unremarkable as the weather, when to you it felt like being handed his heart in the simplest possible form.

You swallowed. “I know.”

His gaze lingered on your reflection. “Do you?”

The question was gentle enough to hurt.

You looked down at the highlighter in your hand, then set it beside the rest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He just watched you, something tender moving beneath the calm of his face, and then the moment loosened because he cleared his throat and tipped his chin toward the clutter spreading over the vanity.

“So how much of that did you buy?”

You laughed, grateful for the release. “Rude.”

“I’m serious.”

“You told me to treat myself.”

“I did not expect to finance a full cosmetic expansion.”

“Expansion,” you repeated, grinning. 

“Looks expensive enough to be one.”

You picked up two little containers. “These were mini sizes.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “That means they’re small.”

“Yes.”

“Not cheap.”

You sighed. “No.”

He nodded like a man whose suspicions had been confirmed. “Thought so.”

You held up another gloss tube. “This one was on sale.”

He gave you a long look.

“It was!”

“That phrase’s dangerous in your mouth.”

“It’s not dangerous.”

“Darlin, every time you say somethin’ was on sale, somehow three bags appear.”

You put a hand to your chest. “I can’t believe you’d stereotype me like this in my own bedroom.”

Joel laughed and the sound of it curled around you like a warm blanket.

He rubbed his hand over his beard and nodded toward the products. “Alright. So what else we got.”

You brightened immediately and began lining them up in order like you were preparing to teach a masterclass. “Skincare.”

Joel made a face.

You caught it instantly. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say nothin’.”

“Your face said enough.”

He leaned back on one arm. “How many steps?”

You looked away. “That depends.”

Joel groaned quietly. “Baby.”

“It depends on the night.”

“That means too many.”

“It does not mean too many.”

“How many.”

You started counting under your breath. “Cleanser. Serum. Moisturizer. Eye cream if I feel like it. Sometimes an exfoliant, but not every night, obviously. And then if my skin is dry, maybe—”

Joel held up a hand. “I blacked out halfway through that.”

You laughed. “No, you didn’t.”

“Felt like I did.”

“Skincare is important.”

He gave you a skeptical look. “You’re twenty seven, not ninety.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

He watched you for a second, then asked with suspicious sincerity, “Is that why there are so many tiny bottles in the bathroom that all look exactly the same?”

You gasped. “They do not look exactly the same.”

“They absolutely do.”

“That one has niacinamide.”

He stared.

You lifted another. “This one has hyaluronic acid.”

He kept staring.

You held up a third. “And this one is peptides.”

Joel blinked once, then slowly dragged a hand down his face. “You just cast a spell at me.”

You burst out laughing.

“I’m serious,” he said, though he was smiling too now. “That sounded illegal… like drugs and that stuff.”

“It’s not illegal, it’s skincare.”

“Same difference.”

You shook your head, still smiling, and then your fingers dipped back into the box one more time.

Joel watched your expression change before the product even cleared the tissue paper.

His brows lifted. “What’s that look for?”

You bit back a grin. “Nothing.”

“Sweetheart.”

You looked over your shoulder at him with eyes far too innocent. “This one’s just… funny.”

Joel straightened a little. “Funny how?”

You held the tube in your hand but didn’t show him yet.

He narrowed his gaze. “Why’re you hidin’ it?”

“Because you’re going to be immature.”

Joel actually looked offended. “I am never immature.”

You stared at him.

He waited.

Then one corner of your mouth lifted. “That was embarrassing for both of us.”

A laugh escaped him. “Alright, fine. Little bit.”

“Little bit,” you echoed, unconvinced.

You turned the tube in your fingers, smiling to yourself now, and Joel could already tell from the expression on your face that whatever came next was going to amuse you entirely too much.

He shifted closer to the edge of the bed without even meaning to, curiosity plain on his face now. “C’mon, then. Lemme see.”

You looked at him, still grinning. “Promise you’ll behave?”

Joel met your eyes. “No.”

That made you laugh again and you lifted the last item slowly, ready to show him the thing you already knew was going to make him lose it.You held it up between two fingers with a grin you were making absolutely no effort to hide now, the little metallic pink tube catching the warm bedroom light as you turned it toward him.

Joel squinted at the label.

Then he went very still.

His eyes moved across the words once. Twice.

And then, exactly as predicted, he barked out a laugh so sudden and unguarded it startled even him.

You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”

That only made it worse.

Joel bent forward, one hand over his mouth now, shoulders shaking as the laugh hit him again, deeper this time, rough and helpless and impossible to stop. He looked up at you with tears of amusement practically threatening in the corners of his eyes and repeated, disbelieving, “Better Than Sex?”

You stared at him, trying very hard to look stern and getting nowhere. “Joel.”

“Baby.” He shook his head and laughed again. “No. I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be respectful, I do, but that is the dumbest damn name I ever heard in my life.”

“It is not dumb.”

“It is ridiculous.”

“It’s marketing!”

“Marketing by a thirteen year old boy, maybe.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your own smile and failed miserably. “You said you were going to behave.”

“I very specifically did not promise that.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to be mean.”

Joel sat up a little straighter, still grinning, and held out a hand. “Lemme see it.”

You hesitated just long enough to make a point, then passed it over. He took the tube carefully, turning it in his fingers like maybe the name would somehow become less absurd if he looked at it from another angle but it did not.

He read it aloud again, slower, like he was trying to understand how a real company with a real boardroom and real adult employees had come to this decision. “‘Better Than Sex.’” He looked up at you. “There was nobody in that office brave enough to stop this?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Apparently not.”

Joel stared down at the tube. “Who approved that?”

“People smarter than us, probably.”

“No, ma’am.” He handed it back with quiet authority. “Ain’t no smart person names a mascara after sex.”

You took it from him, smiling now. “That’s because you don’t understand branding.”

He leaned back on the bed again, one hand braced behind him, expression dry. “Then explain it to me.”

You drew in a dramatic breath and straightened in the chair like you were about to defend a thesis. “Alright. The point is not that the mascara is literally better than sex.”

Joel immediately cut in. “Well, that’s disappointin’, because that is very much what they printed on the tube.”

You glared at him. “Would you let me finish?”

He made a little go ahead gesture with his fingers, though the smile was still pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“The point,” you repeated, “is that it promises drama.”

Joel’s expression remained skeptical. “Drama.”

“Yes. Big lashes. Volume. Length. Impact.” You held the tube up between you both like a piece of courtroom evidence. “It’s not subtle. It wants attention.”

He looked from the mascara to you. “So the mascara is flirtin’.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hate that you made that sound logical.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. “Ain’t wrong.”

You rolled your eyes and unscrewed the tube, pulling the wand out with a soft wet click. “Look.”

He leaned forward instinctively, curious despite himself now, watching as you angled the wand so he could see the brush.

Joel frowned. “That’s it?”

You looked at him. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

“It’s just a little spiky stick.”

“It is not a spiky stick.”

He pointed. “That’s absolutely a spiky stick.”

“It’s a mascara wand.”

Joel nodded once, solemn again. “That’s what I said.”

You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself, and turned toward the mirror. “You are impossible to educate.”

“Yet you persist.”

“Because I’m committed.”

“To what, exactly.”

“Improving you.”

Joel’s low laugh followed you into the mirror. “Good luck with that.”

You angled closer to the glass and lifted the wand to your lashes. “Okay. So mascara darkens them, lengthens them, thickens them—ideally.”

“‘Ideally’ don’t sound confident.”

“Because some mascaras clump.”

Joel frowned. “Clump.”

“Yes.”

“That bad?”

“It can be.”

He was quiet for a second. “How many problems y’all got in that industry?”

You laughed under your breath. “More than you could possibly understand.”

He watched your reflection carefully as you started applying the mascara with slow, practiced movements, the brush catching at the roots and pulling upward. Joel had seen you do this before, of course. More than once. But there was something different about being invited into it this closely, being talked through the steps like he belonged there in the middle of the ritual instead of merely passing by the doorway while it happened.

He found himself following every little motion.The steadiness of your hand. The slight concentration in your face. The way your eyes widened a touch as the lashes separated and darkened.

“Waterproof,” you reminded him, glancing at him through the mirror.

Joel nodded. “That part I understand.”

“Do you.”

“Sure. Means it won’t run if it gets wet.”

“Exactly.”

He folded one arm across his chest. “Good for rain.”

You smiled. “Yes.”

“Cryin’.”

“Yes.”

“Humid weather.”

“Yes.”

Joel considered that, then squinted at the tube as if he could extract more information from sheer suspicion. “And that’s it?”

You took your time with the other eye, far too aware now of the way he was watching. “Not exactly.”

His voice changed a little. “No?”

You kept your gaze on the mirror because looking at him directly would’ve been too much too soon. “No.”

Joel waited.

He had that patience when he wanted to. He could make silence feel like a gentle and guiding hand at the small of your back. You felt him watching as clearly as if he’d touched you, and it made your skin go warm in places you were trying very hard not to think about yet.

You cleared your throat softly. “It also says it holds up against sweat.”

Joel made a small thoughtful sound. “Alright.”

“And…” You adjusted the wand, pretending great interest in the angle of your lashes. “Other… things.”

Joel didn’t move right away, didn’t speak either. The quiet between you lengthened until it had weight, and when he finally did say something, his voice came out rougher than before.

“What kind of things.”

You looked at him in the mirror then.

There was the answer.

You turned back to the mirror and gave your lashes one more slow coat. “Fluids.”

Joel let out a breath through his nose that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so much like restraint. “Darlin'.”

“What?” you asked, all false innocence.

He looked at the back of your shoulder, then up to your eyes in the mirror again. “You know exactly what.”

You capped the mascara with careful fingers, buying yourself a second. “I’m explaining the product.”

“That's what this is.”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, but his eyes stayed on you. “Seems awfully selective.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s an important feature.”

“Is it now.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent enough to make the room feel smaller. “So let me get this straight. Some genius came up with a mascara named ‘Better Than Sex,’ and then another genius decided to advertise that it survives…” His eyes moved over your face, dipped to your mouth, then back up. “Fluids.”

You swallowed, trying not to show it. “That seems to be the implication.”

He sat with that for a second. Then, very dryly, “That may be the most committed sales pitch I’ve heard all year.”

You laughed, but it came out weaker than before.

Joel watched you set the tube down on the vanity, watched the way your fingers lingered on it for a fraction too long. “And you bought this because…”

“Because it had good reviews.”

“Mm.”

“And because it’s supposed to make lashes look dramatic.”

His gaze flicked up to the mirror again. “Mission accomplished.”

Your breath caught a little at how simply he said it.

You looked at yourself then, partly to avoid looking at him. The mascara had done what it always promised to do: your lashes looked darker, longer, fuller, framing your eyes in a way that made your whole face read differently. Less soft. Less sleepy. Sharper somehow. More deliberate. Your eyes looked bigger, yes, but definitely not innocent.

You turned on the stool, one hand settling in your lap. “Well?”

Joel didn’t answer immediately.

He just looked.

His gaze moved slowly over your face, taking in what had changed. The lashes now casting longer shadows against your skin. But he was not just looking at the makeup. He was looking at you inside it. At the way you wore it. At the confidence that had crept quietly into your posture because you knew you looked good and you wanted him to know you knew.

It made his heat tighten behind his ribs.

“You’re pretty,” he said at last.

You made a face immediately. “Joel.”

“What.”

“That is not a serious review.”

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say it was.”

“I’m asking about the mascara.”

“Mm.” His eyes stayed on yours. “And I’m answerin’ honestly.”

You tried not to smile and failed. “Be specific.”

Joel let out a quiet breath, like he was indulging you, but there was no impatience in him. Only attention. “Alright.”

He stood then.

Joel crossed the small distance between the bed and the vanity until he stood just behind your chair, close enough that the warmth of him slid over your bare shoulders before he even touched you. In the mirror you watched him lift one hand and rest it lightly on the top edge of the vanity, caging you in without quite meaning to. His other hand came to your jaw, fingers rough and warm as they tilted your face very slightly toward the light.

Now you could barely breathe.

Joel studied your reflection and yours alone, his eyes narrowed in concentration as if he were trying to get this right. “They do look longer.”

His thumb brushed once, barely there, near your chin. “Darker, too.”

You kept still.

His gaze lingered. “Makes your eyes look…” He trailed off.

You looked up at him in the mirror. “Look what?”

Joel’s eyes met yours there. For one suspended second he seemed to debate with himself. Then he gave in, just a little.

“Like trouble,” he said quietly.

Your heart stumbled.

He looked down at you then and whatever he saw on your face must have reached him, because something in his expression softened even as the heat stayed.

You tried for lightness. “That’s not very technical.”

Joel’s mouth curved. “You want technical?”

“Yes.”

He leaned down just enough that his voice brushed near your ear. “Alright, then. They make it hard to look anywhere else.”

You exhaled shakily.

He stayed there a moment, close enough that your whole body had gone aware of him in pieces. The smell of soap from his shower. The quiet scrape of his thumb when it moved once more against your skin.

Then, because you needed the thread picked back up before it snapped entirely, you looked at the mascara on the table and said, with a little too much brightness, “And it’s waterproof.”

Joel laughed softly, the sound low in your ear. “You already sold me on that part, darlin’.”

You swallowed. “Did I?”

“Yeah.”

He straightened just enough to look at you again in the mirror, one hand still resting beside you on the vanity. “Only thing I’m still unclear on—”

You turned your head slightly. “What’s that?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted again, maddeningly calm. “Whether all that advertising’s true.”

The words landed between you dangerously.

You stared at him.

Then his hand slipped from your jaw, slow enough to feel deliberate, and he stepped back just one pace, enough to give you air without really undoing what he’d started.

His voice, when it came, was gentler. “Though I should probably mention”—his eyes moved over your face once more—“you didn’t need it.”

Your expression softened despite yourself. “Need what?”

“Any of it.” He nodded toward the products scattered over the vanity. “The primer, the blush, the dramatic flirtin’ mascara with the terrible name.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re beautiful without all that.”

You looked down for a second, smiling helplessly. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“I know.” You glanced back up at him. “But that’s not the point.”

Joel nodded slowly. “No. I know it ain’t.”

There it was again. The understanding, the quiet way he met you where you actually were instead of simplifying you.

His gaze moved to the mascara one last time, then back to your eyes, still darkened and dangerous in the vanity light. “Still,” he murmured, voice gone rough at the edges again, “I gotta admit.”

You waited.

Joel’s eyes held yours.

“It does look real good on you.”

You looked at him through the mirror.

He looked back.

And then his gaze drifted over the products scattered across the vanity and he said, low and thoughtful, “Seems a shame, though.”

Your brows lifted. “What does?”

“All that effort.” His eyes came back to your face, to the lashes you’d darkened on purpose, to the mouth that had been trying not to smile for the last thirty seconds. “All that makeup.”

You turned a little more in the chair. “What about it?”

Joel’s mouth twitched faintly. “Gonna go to waste.”

You stared at him for half a beat, then let out a tiny laugh. “Waste?”

He gave one slow nod, like this was the most reasonable point in the world.

“How exactly is it going to waste?”

Joel shifted his weight, one hand catching the knot of the towel at his hip for the briefest second before falling away again. The motion was absentminded, but your eyes dropped there anyway, and when they lifted back to his face he had already noticed.

That did not help.

His voice dipped lower. “Well, darlin’… unless I’ve badly misunderstood the shape of this evening, I figured we’d be goin’ to bed before too long.”

The words themselves were almost innocent.

Almost.

You felt the silence that followed settle over the room, and for one suspended second you didn’t answer.

Joel noticed that too.

His eyes narrowed just slightly as he watched your face, watched the way your fingers tightened in your lap, watched the little shift in your breathing. He knew that look by now. Knew the exact moment a thought took hold in you and turned from playful to dangerous. It was always there first, in your eyes. That glint. That pause. That split second where he could practically see the idea forming before you ever said a word.

And judging by the way his chest rose on a slow inhale, he knew this one was going to be trouble. The kind of trouble he never once tried very hard to avoid.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he murmured.

You stood from the vanity slowly, turning fully to face him now. The height difference between you always felt more pronounced when he was like this, with his eyes fixed on you with that patient, dangerous attention that never rushed and never missed a thing.

You stepped closer.

Joel’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again.

“How do you mean, waste?” you asked softly.

His expression shifted, something amused and warmer than amused flickering through it. “Darlin'.”

“No, tell me.” You tilted your head just slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, nothing’s being wasted.”

Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, except there was too much heat in it now to really be one. “That so?”

“That so.”

You could see him trying to read you, trying to decide whether this was still teasing or whether the ground had shifted under his feet without him noticing.

Then his eyes moved over your face again, slower this time, taking in the lashes, the mouth, the expression you were making no attempt to soften.

When he spoke, his voice had gone gravel deep. “Baby.”

That one word should not have felt like a hand sliding over bare skin. And yet you took the last half step in, close enough now to feel the heat coming off him, close enough that if you lifted your hand it would land on the center of his chest. The towel sat careless and unfair around his waist, his hair still damp, his whole body loose with the kind of comfort that only existed in private, in the quiet safety of home, in the hour when the rest of the world stopped mattering and there was only this room and this man and the way he was looking at you now.

You smiled teasingly.

“It’s not going to waste,” you said.

Joel held very still.

“No?”

You shook your head once, eyes never leaving his. “No.”

He swallowed.

That was it. Just a tiny movement in his throat, but you caught it, and the satisfaction of being able to do that to him with so little nearly made you bolder than you already were.

Joel’s hands remained at his sides, though you could tell by the tension in them that it cost him something now. “Alright,” he said carefully. “Then I’m listenin’.”

You let your gaze flick down his chest and back up, deliberately mirroring the way he’d looked at you before. “I’ve been thinking about this mascara all day.”

That got his attention in full.

“All day,” he repeated.

You nodded.

Joel’s mouth curved, but it was thin now, held back by effort. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

He laughed once under his breath, but the sound came out uneven. “You say that awful casually.”

You took another inch of space, enough that the edge of your nightgown nearly brushed the towel at his hip. Joel didn’t move away. If anything, he seemed to brace without meaning to, like his whole body had recognized the shift before his mind could catch up.

And still you made him wait.

“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice softening, “to see if it’s actually as good as it claims.”

Joel stared at you.

His eyes searched yours, and when he spoke, his voice was so low it barely seemed to cross the space between you. “Baby…”

You smiled wider.

“So no,” you said gently. “Nothing’s going to waste.”

He exhaled slowly, chest rising under the warm lamplight, and there it was again, that look. That exact look. The one you knew got under his skin every single time. Part disbelief, part desire, part the dawning realization that he was no longer in control of the direction this night was taking and that, worse, he did not want to be.

Your fingers lifted at last, just enough to rest lightly against his chest.

Joel’s eyes dropped to the touch.

Then back to your face.

And you gave him the line like a gift.

“I’ve been waiting all day,” you said softly, “to test with my husband whether this mascara really holds up to everything it promises.”

Joel went completely still.

His jaw tightened just slightly. His hand flexed once at his side. His eyes dragged over your face as though he were seeing you and the trouble in you with punishing new clarity.

Then he laughed, just once.

And when he looked at you again, whatever amusement had been there before had burned down into something darker.

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Joel’s hand came up then, rough fingers finding your waist with slow intention, like he was giving himself one last chance to be careful and already knew it was too late. 

“Baby,” he said, and this time it sounded like a warning aimed at both of you.

His hand tightened slightly at your waist, thumb pressing in just enough to ground himself, or maybe to make sure you were real and not something his tired brain had invented after a long week and a hot shower and too much time thinking about you.

You tilted your head, lashes dark and deliberate, exactly like you’d intended. “What?”

Joel let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, except there was no real humor left in it now. Just pure heat turned into desperate need. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

You smiled. “That’s not very reassuring, you know.”

“Ain’t meant to be.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingered there just a second too long, then dragged back up like it cost him something. 

He shifted his weight slightly, like he was bracing for something he’d already decided not to stop.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “What part?”

“All of it.”

You held his gaze, fully aware now of how close you were, how little space there was left to hide behind anything safe. “I said,” you began softly, fingers still resting against his chest, “that I don’t think anything’s going to waste.”

Joel’s jaw tightened.

“And,” you continued, quieter now, stepping just a fraction closer, “that I’ve been waiting all day…”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, like he was mapping out the line of you again just to be sure.

“…to test it with my husband,” you finished.

The silence that followed was thick.

His control was still there, you could see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his grip hadn’t tightened too much, in the way he was still choosing every movement instead of letting instinct take over completely.

But it was slipping.

And you could feel that too.

Your hand moved slightly against his chest again—just enough to tempting him—and that was all it took.

Joel closed his eyes for half a second, like he was giving himself one last moment of control.

Then he opened them again.

And whatever had been holding him back was gone.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and dangerous in that quiet way that meant he was done pretending this wasn’t happening. “You wanna test it?”

Your pulse jumped.

He leaned in just enough that his breath brushed warm against your cheek, close enough to make your thoughts scatter without even touching you yet.

“Let’s see how well it holds up,” he murmured.

That was the moment everything tipped.

His thumb dragged slowly along the curve of your hip. “All day, huh? Thinkin’ about me ruinin’ it?”

“Every hour.”

A low, dangerous sound rumbled out of his chest. He spun you around so fast your breath caught, pressing your front against the vanity edge until the cool wood bit into your hips. The mirror reflected everything: your flushed face, the new mascara, Joel towering behind you like a man who’d just been handed permission to lose control.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice right against your ear. One big hand slid up your sternum, fingers spreading wide over your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just resting there like a heavy reminder. “You’re gonna watch every second while I fuck that pretty makeup right off you.”

Your eyes met his in the glass. His were dark, pupils blown, jaw tight with restraint he was already losing.

“Yes, Joel.”

He hummed approval, free hand shoving the towel away. It dropped to the floor with a soft thud. His cock was already hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip and curving up against your clothed ass. He dragged it slowly between your cheeks, teasing, letting you feel exactly how much he meant every word.

“Gonna start slow,” he murmured, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Deep. So you feel every inch stretchin’ that tight little pussy while you keep those eyes on the mirror. Then I’m gonna fuck you stupid. And every single time you’re about to come…” His fingers flexed around your throat. “I stop. You’re not comin’ till that mascara’s runnin’ down your cheeks like you’ve been cryin’ for me. Understand?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically. “Yes—please—”

He kicked your feet apart wider, one hand still collared around your throat, the other sliding down to pull your panties aside. No patience left for taking them off. The blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance, already slick from how long you’d been teasing each other.

“Eyes on the mirror, darlin’,” he growled. “Don’t you fuckin’ look away.”

Then he pushed in. One long, slow, relentless inch at a time until he was buried to the hilt and your mouth fell open on a broken moan. The stretch burned so good your lashes fluttered, but you kept your eyes open, locked on the reflection like he’d commanded.

“Fuck,” Joel breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “So goddamn tight. Always so perfect for me.” He rolled his hips once, grinding deep, letting you feel him throb inside you. “Look how pretty you look takin’ me. Those lashes still all nice and dark… for now.”

He started moving then. Slow, deep drags that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back into your dripping cunt. Every thrust dragged against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. His hand stayed firm around your throat, thumb stroking the side like he was petting you while he ruined you.

“That’s it, baby. Watch yourself get fucked.” His voice was pure filth now. “See how your tits bounce every time I bottom out? See how your mouth opens like you can’t even breathe right? That’s my cock doin’ that to you.”

You moaned, the sound loud in the quiet bedroom. Your hands gripped the edge of the vanity so hard your knuckles went white. The mirror showed everything: the way your eyes were already glassy, the faint sheen of sweat starting on your collarbones, Joel’s broad body behind you, muscles flexing with every controlled thrust.

“Gonna take my time,” he rasped. “Gonna fuck you so deep you forget your own name before I even let you come.” He snapped his hips a little harder on the next thrust, making your breath hitch. “But not yet. Not till I say.”

He kept the pace torturously slow for what felt like forever. Long, rolling strokes that had you whimpering and pushing back against him, chasing more. Every time your moans pitched higher, every time your walls started fluttering around him, Joel would still completely, buried deep, and just hold you there.

“Not yet, baby, not a chance,” he murmured against your neck, biting down lightly. “Feel that? Feel how full you are? That’s where you belong, baby. Stuffed full of my cock while you watch yourself fall apart.”

“Joel—please—”

“Please what?” He flexed inside you, grinding slow circles. “Use your words. Tell me what you want while you’re lookin’ me in the eyes.”

“I need to come,” you gasped, voice shaking. “Please let me come—”

His hand tightened just enough around your throat to make your pulse jump. “No, sweetheart,” He pulled out almost completely, then sank back in so deep your knees buckled. “Not till those lashes are ruined. I want black streaks down your pretty cheeks. I want you lookin’ like you’ve been cryin’ and chockin’ on my dick.”

He started fucking you harder then, still controlled, but deeper, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your mascara was already starting to smudge at the corners from the tears of frustration gathering in your eyes.

“Look at that,” he groaned, eyes locked on the mirror. “Already runnin’. My pretty little wife’s mascara can’t even handle a little foreplay. What’s it gonna do when I really start wreckin’ you, huh?”

He picked up the pace, hips snapping forward harder, the hand on your throat keeping you upright and forced to watch. Every thrust jolted you forward against the vanity. Your lashes were definitely smearing now, faint black tracks forming under your eyes.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he growled. “Pussy’s greedy tonight. You love to watch while I ruin you, don’t you?”

“Yes—yes, Joel—”

He reached around with his free hand and found your clit, giving it a light, stinging little tap with two fingers. You cried out, hips jerking.

“Uh-uh,” he scolded, tapping again, harder this time. “No comin’. Not yet.” Another sharp little slap right over your swollen clit. “This pretty pussy’s gonna wait till I’ve got black tears runnin’ down your face.”

Joel kept fucking you hard and deep, hips snapping forward with that relentless rhythm that had the vanity creaking under your hands. He leaned in close again to whisper in your ear.

“Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world, baby?”

You laughed. A broken, desperate sound that turned into a moan halfway through because he chose that exact second to grind against your spongy spot. Joel’s hand cracked down on your ass in a sharp, stinging spank that made you jolt forward. He didn’t miss a beat, cock still buried to the hilt.

“I asked you a question,” he growled. Another hard thrust. Another spank, this one right on the same ass cheek, making your skin bloom hot. “Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world?”

Your voice came out wrecked and breathless.

“Me—fuck, Joel— it’s me.”

He was grinning in the mirror. He rewarded you with a deep, punishing stroke that made your eyes roll back.

“That’s right,” he rasped, spanking you again. “My beautiful girl. Say it again while I fuck you.”

“It’s me,” you sobbed, voice cracking as an orgasm threatened to rip through you. “I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Joel groaned low in his chest, hips snapping harder.

“Damn right you are,” he muttered almost tenderly while he kept pounding into you. “And don’t you ever fuckin’ forget it.”

He fucked you like that for what felt like hours with hard, deep thrusts interspersed with those cruel little clit slaps every time you got too close. Your mascara was a mess now, dark smudges under your eyes, streaks starting to run down your cheeks every time a tear slipped free.

“Goddamn,” Joel muttered, voice wrecked. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty when you cry for me.” He slammed in harder, grinding against your spongy spot again. “Almost there, baby. Almost got you lookin’ exactly how I want.”

Your legs were shaking. You were babbling —please, Joel, please, I can’t, I need— but he just kept going, relentless, edging you right to the brink and then stopping or slapping your clit until the orgasm retreated.

One final hard thrust and he stilled again, buried to the hilt, hand flexing around your throat.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice rough. “Look how ruined you are.”

In the mirror your reflection was wrecked: You were shaking, tears spilling faster, mascara dripping off your chin onto the vanity. Joel looked feral behind you with his hair damp with sweat.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s the face I wanted. Now you can come, baby. Come all over my cock while I watch those tears run.”

He didn’t give you time to answer. He fucked you with brutal, perfect strokes that hit exactly where you needed every single time. His hand left your throat only to slide down and rub tight, fast circles over your clit, no more teasing, no more denial.

“Come on, baby. Let go. Soak my dick while I ruin the rest of that mascara.”

The orgasm crashed into you like a freight train. You screamed his name, walls clamping down around him, body shaking so hard he had to hold you up. Black tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, mascara running in messy streaks all the way to your jaw.

“Fuck—yes—that’s my girl,” Joel groaned, voice breaking. “Look at you. So fuckin’ beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

He fucked you through it, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. “Gonna fill you up, baby.”

One more thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, coming with a low, guttural moan, cock pulsing hot inside you. He kept grinding through it, milking every last drop while you trembled and cried in his arms.

For a long moment the only sound was both of you panting, the mirror fogged slightly at the edges from heat and breath.

Joel stayed inside you, arms wrapped around your middle now, gentler. He pressed a slow, open mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your tear streaked cheek.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he murmured, voice soft and wrecked. “You look like a goddamn dream.”

He reached over to the vanity without pulling out, grabbed the pack of makeup remover wipes you always kept there, and tugged one free with his teeth. Then, still buried deep inside you, he turned you in his arms, lifted you clean off the floor, and carried you the few steps to the bed.

He sat down on the edge, keeping you straddling his lap, cock still snug and warm inside you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically. He cradled the back of your head with one hand and brought the wipe to your face with the other.

“Hold still, darlin’,” he said gently, voice full of that quiet affection that always undid you. “Let me clean my pretty girl up.”

He wiped your cheeks with slow, careful movements, thumb brushing tenderly under your eyes as the black streaks disappeared. Every few seconds he’d lean in and kiss you with soft, lingering kisses on your lips, your forehead, the tip of your nose.

“That mascara didn’t stand a chance, did it?” he teased between kisses, a crooked smile on his face. “Promised it was better than sex… and here you are with black rivers down your face after one round with your husband.”

You laughed, watery and breathless, and he kissed the sound right off your lips.

“Shh, I got you,” he whispered, wiping the last smudge away. “All clean now. My beautiful girl.”

He tossed the wipe aside and wrapped both arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. His cock twitched inside you, still half hard, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

“Love you,” he murmured against your hair, voice low and reverent. “Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts sometimes.”

You buried your face in his neck and smiled against his skin.

“Love you more.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh, hand stroking slow circles up and down your back.

“Nah, baby. Not possible.”

He stayed like that for a long time, still inside you, holding you close, kissing your temple every few seconds while the bedroom lamp cast a warm glow over both of you. The vanity mirror behind you reflected the two of you tangled together.

“Next time you buy somethin’ similar to ‘Better Than Sex,’” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “I’m makin’ you wear it so I can prove it wrong all over again.”

You laughed into his neck, and he tightened his arms around you, heart beating steady against yours.

“Deal?” he asked, smiling.

“Deal,” you whispered.