Take Another Drag Turn Me To Ashes

He runs down the paper like it’s his grocery list, “Okay, first of all Joe was playing the radio in the shop today and Queen came on and it made me think of you.” 

Your heart flutters at the sentiment, “Aw, what song was it?” You’re curious to know what it was so you can go listen to it, even though you’ve more than likely heard it a million times. You just want to listen to it from his perspective, imagining what lines made him think of you. 

You giddily wonder if it was Killer Queen, you do have an insatiable appetite for him. Or maybe it was Somebody To Love, you swoon at the thought of Eddie hearing the choir-like chanting, ‘Find me somebody to love,’ knowing he’s coming home to you. His somebody. 

Your rose-colored thoughts are dashed when he quips his answer. 

“Fat Bottomed Girls,” he’s got a proud grin stretched across his face before he looks at his lengthy list once more, quickly moving on. 

Your eyes deaden, lips pressed into a thin line, “Okay.” A tone of defeat saturating the word, you should’ve known better. That’s about right for Eddie, your perpetually horny boyfriend. 

He continues as if he’s presenting on a time limit, too much to say, please hold all questions ‘til the end. 

“Okay, up next, I stopped at Bradley’s Big Buy on the way home and bought you a new bag of tootsie rolls.” He reaches into the paper bag on the chair beside him and plops the huge bag of the sugary treat on the counter. “I checked the pantry this morning and saw we’re running low. Plus, your period is supposed to come this week and I can’t be without my greatest allies.” He finishes by patting the crinkling bag. 

You furrow your brow, jerk your head back, eyes flutter-blinking in a questioning manner, how did he know you’re supposed to get your period this week?

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” he waves off your confusion as if it’s preposterous, “I keep up with my girl, and my girl’s girl.” He gestures vaguely to your lower half, it makes you snort. 

“Did you just refer to my vagina as sentient?” Your eyebrows are furrowed, eyes alight with mirth. 

He shrugs, “You know me.” He’s so blasé with it, as if those three words explain everything. 

What you don’t know is he keeps a little pocket calendar that he uses to mark your menstrual cycle. He wants to know when his girl isn’t feeling very good, but he also wants to know when his girl is feeling extra good. 

“Moving forward,” he shouts with a finger up in the air, turning his nose up as if frustrated by your incessant interruptions. Such a drama queen, you think. 

“Gareth asked me if we want to go on a double date with him and Jenna this Friday, I told him I’d ask the old Ball & Chain.” He’s grinning when he says it, preparing for your inevitable smack. 

And you do smack him, right on his shoulder. “Hey! I’m not a Ball & Chain until you lock it down,” is your only response, you can’t help but smile at the glee in his eyes when you mention being his forever. 

“You’re so right, my dearest, how very silly of me.” He says it in a stilted overly-formal voice like he’s a 1940s business man puffing on a cigar. “But mark my words, you will be my Ball & Chain,” he says in a playful threat, “When you least expect it, that’s when I’ll strike.”

You shake your head, smiling at his stupidity. He’s smug at the fact that you don’t know he’s been wearing the engagement ring he bought you around his neck, beneath his clothes, for the past four months just waiting for the perfect moment.

“Yes, let’s do dinner, what’s next,” you question, craning your neck forward to get a glimpse at his chicken scratch writing. 

He jerks the paper away from your view, it’s then that you realize he’s written all of this on the back of a purchasing request from the shop. You see the logo for ‘Joe’s Cars’ at the top of the page, god, you hope they didn’t need this document for their files. 

He holds the paper to his chest, reprimanding you like you’re a nosy kid, “No peeking!” 

You laugh as you settle back into your stance in front of him, waiting for what he has to say next. 

“On my way home I saw a banner on the mall advertising a sale at the Gap and I figured we could go get you that dress you saw in the catalog the other day. Maybe you can wear that to dinner with Gareth and Jenna,” he suggests. 

It’s so straightforward the way he says it. He’s waiting for your response, but you’re nearly choking back tears at the way he loves you. The way he sees you.

You had shown him the dress last week while he was building you a shelf for your joint bedroom. The shelf would be a place for you to put your romance novels, a lot of Jilly Cooper and Jackie Collins, something your ex would’ve never done. He always made you feel bad for reading those types of books, but not Eddie. Eddie built you a place to display them proudly in your room, no longer having to dig under the bed to reread them. 

When you showed him the dress, you didn’t think he actually remembered the interaction. He gave you his attention when you talked about how pretty it was and how much you liked the pleated skirt, but you just thought it went in one ear and out the other. You thought that he was probably nodding, ‘oo’-ing and ‘ah’-ing until you’d go away, leaving him to work. 

But here he was a week later, having remembered the exact dress and the exact store, offering to buy it for a silly little dinner. 

You smile at him with watery eyes, nodding, “Yeah, I’d like that very much,” you move to kiss him, but he holds up his hand to stop you. A pinch of worry squeezes your heart before he says, “Hold on I’m not done yet!” 

His hand still held in the air, he dutifully looks at his list as if he’s reading something lengthy, preparing to recite the next thought he had at work that he needed to share with you. 

He takes a big breath in before turning to you to share the last thing, “And- I love you.” He says it with the sweetest smile on his face, just happy to talk to you, happy to come home to you. 

It takes you a minute to grasp what he said. That was it. That was the last thing he thought at work that he needed to tell you. Wrote it down and everything. 

He stopped your incoming kiss and affection to tell you that, he gave you pause thinking you rudely cut him off again. But he just wanted to tell you he thought about how he loves you while at work.

He’s so stupid, you think fondly. He’s your stupid, silly, dramatic, lover boy. 

Your close-mouthed smile is so big it makes your eyes squint shut, nose scrunching as you shake your head at his antics. A huffing laugh leaves your nose as you reach for him, his arm pulls you in for the sweetest kiss, the one you get to have every day with him. 

“I love you too, stupid face.” 

You love your non-nonchalant boyfriend. 

Bonus: 

On Friday, you’re getting ready for the double-date in the bathroom, touching up your makeup in preparation to show Eddie. 

“Teddie!” You call out the fond nickname, he loves when you call him that, it liquifies his insides. You always make him melt. 

You can hear his soft thudding steps into the bedroom, a slight squeak of the bed as he sits down. 

“You ready to see?” Your voice echoes from behind the door, he can hear the smile in your voice and it makes him smile. 

“So ready,” he grins, “Gimme my prize, baby. Show me what’s behind door number one!” His imitation of a game show host is weirdly good, he blames it on Wayne’s addiction to old reruns of Let’s Make A Deal.

You open the door, stepping out, nervously brushing the nonexistent wrinkles out of the skirt with your hands. You look up at his face, asking a hesitant, “How do I look?”

He’s frozen in his spot, his eyes are wide as they take in the angel in front of him. He finds you sexy any way you come, but he does love when a gift is covered in pretty wrapping. 

Your confidence grows at his speechlessness, you know him well enough to know it's good speechless. 

He stands up abruptly, “Excuse me- I gotta-hold on-,” and he’s out the front door. You have no idea where he’s going, but knowing him, this is for dramatic effect. So you sit down on the bed and wait, crossing one healed leg over the other, leaning back on your arms, bobbing your foot idly. 

When he comes back in thirty seconds later his black suit is disheveled, his hair no longer neat in a ponytail. The shorter curls are windswept as they frame his face, he’s unbuttoned his dress shirt to his sternum, he’s breathing hard and ragged. You stand at his entrance, hands on your hips, an amused glint in your eyes. 

His cheeks are pink with exertion and sweat beads at his hairline, “Sorry, you’re so hot I literally had to take a lap, I’m back now, we’re good to go. You look amazing, by the way.” He leans in to hold you in a kiss, but you put your hands up to stop his body from touching yours. 

You're giggling at his antics, ‘Ew, you’re all sweaty now,” you whine. 

He grins mischievously, “Oh good, then it won’t matter if I get even more sweaty.” Next thing you know he’s clumsily grabbing the sides of your head, pulling you in for a comically sloppy kiss, and pressing his body to yours desperately. You can feel his leg hitch onto your body like he’s about to climb you like a damn tree. 

You break the silly kiss with a loud laugh, tossing your head back, “Eddieeeeuhhh!” 

You can feel the wet spot on the bed against your back. Joel has you folded like a pretzel, backs of your knees resting on his sun-freckled shoulders, wrists pinned above your head and ass suspended in the air as he drills into you. A single curl bounces at his temple, separate from the rest of his hair that's plastered with sweat to his forehead.

If you make the same mistake five days in a row, can you really still call it a mistake?

He's far too old for you, and a little too mean for you, but damned if he isn't the best lay you've ever had.

Eight inches, uncut, a dick so fucking fat you can barely wrap your hand around it. You can hardly believe he's buried balls deep in you right now. That your body can even take it.

"C'mon, honey, that's it-" Joel's voice is a growl, punctuated by heavy panting, "This pretty lil gash is fuckin' droolin' baby, my own personal slip 'n slide-"

"You're a crass old man," you whine.

"I sure am, honey," he agrees with a grin, "But don't think I can't feel the way you soak me whenever I talk crass, sweetheart."

"I hate you."

He laughs, and a bead of sweat rolls down his temple and along the curve of his nose, splashing onto your cheek. Unthinkingly, you dart your tongue out to catch some of the sweat. Joel's grin turns to a smirk.

"Hate me all you like. You're the one who's come over every night this fuckin' week. Monday through Friday, baby. Hate me so much you can't get enough of daddy's big dick, huh?"

"Fuck you, you're such an asshole-"

This jab is even less effective, punctuated with a moan and a whimper.

"Sure, sweetheart, I am. But don't pretend like we don't both know--you don't have to come here at all."

He grinds against you, coarse hair rubbing against your mound as if to further his point. Pressure hits your clit just right and it's bliss. You have to fully restrain yourself to stop from howling, and even then, you let out a ragged moan.

Joel clamps a hand over your mouth and looks you dead in the eyes.

"I love those pretty sounds, baby, but remember I got neighbors? Thought you said you'd die before anyone finds out about us."

You try to roll your eyes, but he thrusts again and you're caught in another moan. The glide of his body against your clit, especially when he's stretching you out so exquisitely? It's overwhelming. You try to stay quiet, you really do.

It's not your fault though, not when Joel's fucking you silly.

Now, though, he's frustrated.

"Quiet now, settle-"

"I'm not a fucking dog, Joel, I- ahhh-" you mumble and moan between his fingers, barely muffled at all.

"Oh really? Not a fucking dog? Wanna tell me then why you're tryna get bred like a bitch in heat?"

He smacks your cheek, drawing out another pathetic whine that only seems to cement his point.

He sneers. "Those pretty lil noises you're makin' for me? That don't sound like a good girl. That sounds to me like a nasty fuckin' slut who can't help but keep her legs spread so her daddy can fill her up good. Huh? C'mon baby. Tell me to cum inside."

"Fuck you Joel."

Suddenly, cruelly, he stops. Ceases any movement. Relaxes the grip on your wrists.

Panic overtakes you.

"What the fuck-?"

"Sorry sweetheart," he shakes his head, "You don't want this? You can see yourself out."

"No, I-"

You notice he's still sheathed inside you. You feel him do something, flexing his dick inside of you. Frankly, it's cheating.

"Please don't stop."

"What was that, honey?"

"Joooeeel-"

"Quit your whinin', use your words."

"Please fuck me."

"That ain't it, you know whatcha gotta say."

He starts rocking his hips gently, a slippery glide. It's not enough to stimulate. Just enough to make you want more. Need more.

The way you clench around him tells on yourself more starkly than your words ever could.

He's grinning again. "That's it, baby. You ready to admit what you need?"

"Come on, Joel."

"Cum where?"

You sigh. But you know you aren't gonna hold out any longer. He's pressing his thumb just above your clit and the glide of the motion is so fucking delicious it's hard not to buck against it.

Rut against it.

A bitch in heat.

"Fuck me, daddy-" you whine.

"You sound real pretty beggin'. Nearly got it honey. One more try?"

"Cum inside me."

"Mmmmm-" Joel groans, and the grip on your wrists tightens again. "Music to my ears, honey. Tell me where you want it?"

"Inside me, cum inside-"

"You want me to cum inside this lovely lil' pussy?"

"Please Joel-"

"That right?"

"Please cum in me, fill me up, fuck it deep-"

With that, his composure breaks and any restraint he had crumbles. Folds you deeper, fucks you deeper, pins you down and jackhammers into you.

You couldn't move, even if you wanted to, and that knowledge somehow heightens everything. It's blindingly bright, dizzyingly addictive. You barely notice the way Joel's lavishing you with praise, each deep thrust punctuated with good girl, good girl, good fucking girl-

When you cum, you feel the way his balls tighten as if in response, tipping over the edge mere moments after you. It could be romantic, finding yourselves cumming together, if there was any romance between you.

As you start to fade back down, you're able to pay attention again.

"That's it," he's praising you, and you realise his cock is still pulsing. You make to start moving, but he growls and holds you still. "That's right, sweetheart. Gotta let me fill you all the way up. Gonna make sure it takes."

Clarity starts to overtake you and you know that you've made a big fucking mistake. By the time you've come back to yourself, though, your pussy's flooded and pulsing oh so nicely, and Joel's pulling out of you. He moves into the other room and you hear him turn on the shower.

"You can let yourself out," he calls to you. "I'll see you tomorrow."

As a nanny to their two children, not much manages to creep past you about the inhabitants of the luxurious home you shared, and there’s one thing you’re absolutely certain of: Melissa Miller was growing to resent her husband. The two of them had worked hard to make their millions, but Mr. Miller, it seems, hasn’t stopped.

You barely see him outside his study or away from his office downtown. Sure, he makes time for the kids, but that’s when you aren’t needed. They love him, clamouring for him whenever he walks through the door, showing off their latest school work or dance routines they’d picked up from their friends.

That’s when you clock out for the day, watching him shed his suit jacket and tie, his offspring using him as a climbing frame. You retreated to your bedroom in those situations; listening for the terse exchanges you’d hear between husband and wife in the hallway after dark.

Melissa’s words from the previous Friday come back to you as you stand outside the study: swirling the blush-coloured liquid in her glass, stem held delicately between expertly manicured nails. Her friends had nodded and pouted in sympathy, her dissatisfaction towards her husband quite apparent as you made your dinner quietly in the corner.

Fantastic father, you guys know that. He’s a truly great guy. But, he’s married to his career. Not to me. Not for a long time.

The look on her face told you everything you needed to know. You’d seen it before with your girlfriends, felt it before yourself when your relationship with your college boyfriend had run its course.

She’d checked out mentally already.

You’d overheard her again one day when you’d been doing laundry, whispering on the phone about her plans. There’s a guy at work, she’d giggled. James from Accounting. Is this what it’s like to have someone actually want you?

You weren’t getting involved. It wasn’t your place.

Besides, Mr. Miller is always good to you; paying you more than you’d ever dreamed of, asking how your day was going on the odd occasion you see him around the grand home they’ve invited you to live in. For the most part, he simply stays out of your way.

You just admire him from afar.

You know he’s fifty: you’d helped the kids sign his birthday card last year, heard his sarcastic comments about being an older father. He’s a whole twenty-two years your senior, but the fact he was incredibly fucking handsome was never lost on you. Dark hair threaded with silver, same as the scruff along his cheeks. A thick moustache over his full upper lip, beautiful curved nose, brown eyes kind and warm. Taller than you, but never imposing.

A crush on the much-older man who employs you to work in his own home? A fucking terrible idea, to be honest. So, you don’t indulge it; ignoring your daydreams about him in the other wing of the house, sharing a bed with a wife who no longer loves him.

You shift from foot to foot, now, as the floorboards creak beneath you. Melissa hasn’t been home all day, a note left to say Mr. Miller and the children were the only ones who’d need dinner. You wonder, idly, if she’s with James from Accounting right now, drawing up divorce papers and planning how to split the childcare.

So, you’ll simply knock on the study door, just to see if Mr. Miller is okay, let him know you’ve finished for the day.

That’ll be fine, right?

Your fist connects lightly with the smooth oak, and you hear his low voice telling you to come in.

“Hey, Mr. Miller. The girls are sleeping, so I’m gonna turn in for the night. There’s chilli already made, if you wanted anything to-”

“Can I ask you a question?”

His interruption comes as a surprise, until he turns in his chair. He looks.. Defeated. His thick-rimmed glasses in one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. White shirt unbuttoned with his chest exposed, tie pulled loose, shoulders slouched dejectedly.

“Uh, sure.”

Chewing your lip, you stand in front of his desk, his gaze bloodshot and broken. You twist your hands, feeling your palms begin to sweat.

“Did you know about my wife wanting a divorce?”

///

He’s never been this direct, never really asked you any other questions than how was your weekend?

This is new.

Apparently, Melissa had called him. It was over. There was someone else; had been for a while. She’d taken a bag of clothes to her mom’s, would come by in the morning to see the children. He tells you the facts, tone laced with bitterness as he scrubs a hand across his face.

You feigned innocence; gasping and grimacing at all the right times. It truly was a mess: she’d clearly blindsided him, and it showed.

“I know I shouldn’t have been workin’ so late all the time, that I probably should’ve paid her more goddamn attention,” he sighs. “I guess we were strugglin’, but I thought that just came with being parents, y’know?”

You nod encouragingly, even though you don’t know. This is the most Mr. Miller has ever spoken to you; pouring his heart out to the girl he pays to look after his babies. You’re not even sure he knows your surname.

“‘f that’s what she really wants, I won’t stop her. It’s just — the kids. I don’t want ‘em thinkin’ badly of me.”

You fight a strange urge to reach out and smooth the crease between his brows, take his face in your hands. You’re unsure what’s come over you; you know he’s a grown man — much more grown than you.

“Mr. Miller, they’d never think that. You’re the best daddy ever — that’s what they tell me, every single day,” you babble, fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “It’s probably for the best, in the long run. If — if she isn’t happy.”

Fuck. You’ve said too much.

He blinks slowly up at you, eyes shining in the reflection of the low lamplight. “‘f you say so, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

You try to shift your focus away from how the name makes you feel, the butterflies that begin to drift in your belly. He’s so fucking handsome: you like being his darlin’, his sweetheart.

You wonder what else you could be for him.

“Been tryin’ to guess how long she’s been screwin’ some other fucker behind my back, too. Makes me feel like a damned fool.” He pinches the bridge of his nose again as he talks, elbows set on his thighs.

In truth, Melissa and her paramour couldn’t be further from your mind: he’s here, and you want to help him feel better, in any way you can.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Miller? To make it easier?”

He chuckles, then. “Stop callin’ me that, maybe?”

“‘Least I made you smile,” you tease, eyebrows raised. Your hand finds his shoulder, and he moves his to rest over it. His palm all but swallows yours whole; warm and rough as he squeezes. Despite yourself, and his obvious anguish, a buzz of desire claws at your spine.

You’re standing over him, now, watching as his eyes find your waist, the curve of your chest. You squirm a little, unsure of how to feel. Something changes in his gaze: a decision being made. You’re rocked by the realisation of how badly you want him, and how much you probably fucking shouldn’t do.

“You really wanna help me, huh?”

His voice is barely a murmur, and you know he’s offering you a choice. Something tells you that Mr. Miller would never make you do anything you didn’t want to do — that you’re safe with him. Eyes falling to the broad expanse of his chest, the thick biceps in his white shirt; you know you want this. Just as much as he does.

“Yes,” you breathe quietly. “I really do.”

Something passes between you both: unspoken, but shared in its secrecy. You’re confident he’s doing this out of spite, a form of payback towards the woman who’s left him for someone else; but your panties are wet, and you’re past caring.

“Lock the door, darlin’.”

///

Never in a million years did you think you’d find yourself here when you woke up this morning: rolling your hips over Mr. Miller’s thighs in his office chair, his teeth in the column of your throat. Dress hiked up around your waist, his hands grab at your ass, and he’s devouring you like a man starved.

“You’re real fuckin’ pretty, baby. I ever tell you that?”

A giggle bubbles in your chest, the absurdity of the situation finally permeating your consciousness.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“No,” he repeats back to you softly. “That wouldn’t have been right, would it?”

You shrug your shoulders, dragging his lips to yours. This isn’t right either: his wedding band cool against your skin, his name on the paycheck that goes into your account each month. The thrill of it all is heady, but you find it spurs you on even more.

The sensation of his tongue in your mouth is intoxicating; he tastes faintly of whiskey, his cologne almost overwhelming. He’s touching you gently, softly; but each gesture is full of intent, unbridled lust spilling over on both sides.

Mr. Miller plays with the straps of your dress, thick fingers pulling at the dainty bows that hold it in place. He breaks away from you, your chin in his hand as he seeks permission.

“I think you’re pretty all over, baby girl. You gonna let me find out? Let me see if I’m right?”

He’s hard, and huge: you feel the solid shape of him against your core. His words make you shudder in his arms, warm wetness pooling in your underwear.

“Y—Yes, yes, Mr. Miller. I want you to —“

He slides the thin fabric down your forearms, tutting under his breath. “It’s Joel, baby. ‘m just Joel.”

You nod in submission, chest heaving as he exposes you in an agonisingly slow fashion. It’s worth it, though, to watch his pupils dilate as your tits spill free, feel his intake of breath as his hands squeeze and tug at you mercilessly.

“Joel.”

His name is a strangled curse on your tongue, his head dipping to spread messy kisses across your collarbones, tongue dragging lower, kissing the peaks of you reverently. Your back arches of its own accord, pushing you further into his warm, wet mouth.

Your mind is empty of any coherent thought save for the indescribable way Joel’s making you feel. You want to touch him, too, whining as you scrabble for his belt buckle, his bulge prominent and mouth-watering. That laugh rumbles through his chest again, and he pries your fingers away, kissing the tips individually.

“Next time, sweetheart, y’can have it. I promise. Get up on the desk f’me, now.”

Next time.

The idea of it makes you dizzy, leaning on his forearm as Joel helps you onto the priceless antique. He drags your dress from under you, panties falling to the floor, sneakers following with a thump. You’re fully bare for him; dripping onto his facts and figures, his spreadsheets and contracts.

Joel’s throat bobs at the sight of you, his fingernails scratching at his jaw.

“Oh, baby. She needs me, huh? She needs me real bad.”

He deftly hooks your legs over his shoulders, heart beating out of your chest as he lowers himself to your centre. Gripping his silvered curls, his tongue slides over your core, and you buck your hips eagerly into his mouth. He’s so fucking good at it: one huge hand flat on your belly, the other linked with yours.

Joel takes his time, moving to slip his fingers inside you slowly, telling you you’re doin’ so good for him, that you can take ‘em, that he knows you can. It’s all you can do to hold onto him for dear life as you come; reduced to nothing more than a pliant plaything for him, in awe of how you’re responding so impatiently already.

“Joel.. Please. I wanna feel you. More of you.”

He smirks, popping the button of his slacks. He pulls his cock free: it’s big, just like you thought it would be; stiff in his hand and leaking over his thick fingers. You swallow, bracing yourself a little. Joel notices your hesitancy, his thumb on your lower lip, tugging it from your teeth.

“You still wanna do this? Hey, s’okay if not,” he says gently, kissing your forehead. The tenderness is unexpected, but you welcome it anyway, reaching down to wrap your fingers round the sheer width of him. His breath shortens deliciously as you stroke him, and you spread your legs a little wider.

“I want you to fuck me, Mr. Miller.”

The deliberate use of his name pulls a groan from him, brown eyes turning to black. He feeds you it slowly: hand wrapped round your throat, tongue in your mouth. Your nails pierce his skin as he stretches you exquisitely, bare feet digging into his ass to feel him even deeper.

“Attagirl,” Joel tells you through ragged breaths, and you note the pride in his voice. It makes you grin, urging him on as pens and paper fall to floor, desk shaking with the snap of his hips. His pounding is relentless, and before long you’re coming together, his hand over your mouth to subdue your cries of fucked-out bliss.

His spend splashes over your belly, damp foreheads pressed together as your heart rates settle. Joel tucks himself away after a beat, roots around in the draws for some tissue. Your thighs are still shaking, hips sore from his solid grip, but you’re smiling.

You’ve never felt this good after sex: even though it was with the man who employs you, over his desk in the home he shares with his soon to be ex-wife. The absurdity of it all, again, almost makes you giggle.

He dabs at your stomach, throwing the tissue in the trash. Joel wraps one strong forearm round your middle, tipping your chin to look up at him. He searches your face, and you’re glad you don’t see regret in his eyes.

“You okay?”

“Never better.”

His lips against yours are soft now, the earlier hunger dulled by mutual orgasms. You decide not to worry about what comes next, attempting to forget the fact you’re probably jobless for sure. But you know you’d do it all over again, that you’ll go to sleep tonight dreaming of him inside you.

Joel slides your panties along your thighs, helps you wrangle your dress over your head. You’re only just noticing he’s still got all his fucking clothes on; you didn’t get to see him, not the way he saw you.

Next time, sweetheart, y’can have it. I promise.

You wonder whether there’ll ever really be a next time.

He clears his throat, pulls you to your feet. The moonlight curves against his nose, moustache still slick with the remnants of you. You know you probably should feel awkward or ashamed, but you don’t want to flee. You want to stay right here, rooted to the spot beneath him.

“Listen.. I, uh, I don’t know what the arrangements are goin’ to be movin’ forward, but I’d like it if you stuck around.”

His hands settle on your hips, and you blink up at him through your lashes. Just having him touch you again — so innocently, with no real intent behind it — has you wondering what took this so long to fucking happen.

“Me too, Mr. Miller. I’d like that very much.”

///