Thursday, October 21st | 2131

Groggily, you wake in Joel’s dark room, air icy from his ceiling fan.  You’re lying on your right side, heavily bandaged arm propped up on a pillow draped over your left.  You sit up slightly and open your eyes fully, trying to accustom your tired eyes to the minimal lighting in the room.  A strip of light on your left attracts you.  The LED mirror light must be on in his bathroom, and the door is shut.  You hear Joel’s footsteps pattering around the tile floor.

Now somewhat awake and equipped with better vision, you scan the room.  His computer is stashed on the nightstand opposite the one on your side of the bed—he must’ve been working while you cozied up next to him and dozed off.  You get up from the bed slowly, standing in place while your head recalibrates itself—the stars in your vision fade quickly, but your head is heavy as a rock.  Joel must’ve given you one of your pain pills.  You remember giving the orange bottle to him and telling him to put it where you can’t get to it—opioids are new to you, and you don’t want to risk dependence or nasty side effects.

You approach the door and tug lightly, the LED light blinding you momentarily.  A fuzzy, curly-haired blur of a man turns to look at you from one of the sinks.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” Joel says softly.  You’re cute – eyes squinting from the light, face flushed and patterned from your slumber.  You’re still wearing the outfit you had on when he drove you from the hospital—baggy tee, baggy cotton shorts, patterned crew socks.  He walks over to you and pulls you into a warm embrace, laying your head on his shoulder.  You mumble something in response, causing him to chuckle.

“Someone’s high, eh?” he asks in a playful timbre, pulling back slightly to look at your face.  Your gaze is foggy, pupils shrinking from the light as you look up at him.  You smirk and let out a small whine, like a child woken up from a nap.  He pulls you back in and breathes in your scent of gauze and hospital room.

“Let’s get you showered, baby,” he murmurs into your ear.  You nod and lift your arms, giving him room to pull your baggy shirt over your head.  The cool bathroom air licks at your nipples.  He pulls down your shorts and underwear in one swoop while you lean on his arms for support.  You watch him undress, the sight of his bare skin resurrecting your earlier arousal.  Poor Joel has been wanting you since you teased him in the hospital room, and you can tell when you see the half-swell of his cock poking up as his boxers fight to slip over it.

He pulls you in close again, fingertips tracing patterns on your lower back.  You pull your chest flush to his, pebbled nipples dragging on his skin.  He leans in to kiss you—it’s slow and long, sleep still draining itself from your system and Joel keen on his promise to you from the hospital room.  He’s going to make your body and mind feel good—help you start to recover from the events of yesterday.

While he was working, he watched you sleep, occasionally sneaking a hand over to stroke your temple as he recollected the events from yesterday.  When Keri called him, he didn’t answer at first because the number was foreign to him—it was her frantic, mumbled voicemail that kicked his panic into overdrive.  He called back immediately, needing to know if you were okay.

“Joel, she’s alright for now.  That nut gashed her arm pretty good.”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill him, swear—,”

“He’s already dead.  Idiot tried pulling his knife on the cops that showed up.  Three bullets.  All for a fucking permanent deferral.”

“Where is she?  I need to—s-see her, be with her, where—,”

“Immanuel Hospital on 72nd and Sorensen.  Call me when you get here, I’ll bring you up.  She’s out of surgery.”

“On my way.”

Rage coursed through his belly at his reminiscence of yesterday, hands balled into trembling fists.  He cried on the way to the hospital, worried that you might not wake or that some freakish sepsis accident would threaten to take you forever.  Joel admits he doesn’t know much about medicine, and most of what he knows has been from Sarah’s Grey’s Anatomy binges.  But he knows pain and loss—a road he couldn’t bear to travel, not with you.  He had kicked himself two-fold: for letting himself get so attached so quickly, and for thinking that being attached to you like this was a bad thing.  His past threatened to cloud his future, and that wasn’t an option with you in his life.

Mind snapped to the present, he puts on the cast protector he bought for you at the store and guides you into his palatial shower, steam wrapping the walls and the hum of water relaxing you instantly.  You remember that there’s a large seating area in this giant ass bathhouse-disguised-as-a-shower.  He sits you down and moves to redirect the flow of the two showerheads, so the streams hit your feet and legs.  You lean back against the tiled wall, and he kneels in front of you.  His hair is wet, but not quite drenched, droplets cascading down his tendrils and the bridge of his curved nose.

“I’m so happy you’re alright, sweetheart… wanna make you feel good,” he coos, leaning into place soft kisses on your neck and collarbone.  You sigh and arch your chest into his mouth, craving his attention and devotion, a warm envelope you need to be sheathed in.  His mouth moves down to your breast and licks the swell before swirling his tongue up to your nipple, mouth closing over the bud softly.

There are no teeth, no lingering marks as he continues his trail down your curves—just a man selflessly (sort of) pouring his affection for you on your body, hoping to make the day after one of the worst days of your life a better one.  You card the fingers of your free hand through his wet hair as he descends to your navel, the only sounds being the steady stream of water and wet attention of his mouth echoing throughout the shower.  He reaches your mound and you let out a low, long sigh.  He spreads your thighs apart further and scoots down, hooking his forearms around your hips as he pulls you down slightly.  You’re forced to use your good arm to prop yourself up.  Now panting, you look down at him, water droplets from the condensing steam blurring your vision.

“You want this, baby?” he asks, beaming up at you from the apex of your thighs.  Is he asking if you want him to continue, or if you want him?  Either way, you nod feverishly.

“Tell me,” He pleads, licking up your inner thigh as his eyes are still locked on yours.

You whine in response.  “Need you, Joel—all of you, please,” you beg quietly.

He places a wet, open-mouthed kiss on your cunt, and you cry softly, back arching and head tilting back.  He groans into you, the sound and taste of you making his cock twitch.  His tongue swirls over your clit and he sucks lightly.  You gasp, the pressure setting your nerves ablaze.  He continues slowly, alternating between flat licks—your favorite—and soft suckles of your clit.  His tongue is strong and firm, soft and sweet all at once.  You’re moaning his name as he continues licking you, each flick of his tongue casting more sparks in the inferno that is your orgasm—one that grows quickly.  He’s moaning as he eats you out, only pulling away to tell you how good you taste, how wet you are, how much he enjoys doing this to you.  He slides two fingers through your slick and pumps them into you languidly, fully intending to drag this out until you’re screaming.

“Oh, Joel, fuckfuckfuck—feels so good,” you pant, syllables coming out as heavy breaths.  He groans into your core again, delighted to hear your feedback.  He’s so fucking turned on by the taste, smell, sound, and look of you as he gives you raw pleasure, and he reaches a hand down to stroke himself.  You notice the loss of his free hand on your thigh, his other hand still pummeling into you.  You’re close—your quick huffs and intensifying moans let Joel know, too.  Your pussy is squeezing his fingers so tightly that he has trouble pulling them back out.  The edge is near, and you frantically rut your hips against his mouth and nose as you chase your high.  Joel swears he could come right then and there, but before he can think of it further, you let out a wail and your legs spasm uncontrollably.  Your orgasm is intense, strong leg muscles clasping around his head and neck.  He’s not done, though—his tongue and fingers don’t slow until your hand is pulling his hair, coaxing him up to your mouth for a wet, messy kiss.

“Want you inside me, Joel,” you heave, looking at him with lust-blown pupils.  He doesn’t need to be told twice.

“Stand up,” he commands.  As soon as you do, his firm hands grasp your hips and rotate you so you’re facing the tile wall of the shower.  Joel presses down on your back, urging your top half down.  He rubs his hands up and down the landscape of your back, admiring the curve of your waist juxtaposed with your hips.

“Fuckin’ beautiful—tell me you’re mine,” he growls, hand fisting in your hair and pulling.  You whine roughly, the upward crane of your neck compressing your vocal cords.

“Yes, Joel, fuck—I’m yours,” you cry, turned on by his dominance.  He releases your hair and guides himself to your center, the swollen head of his cock gathering slick in your folds before slowly pressing into you.

“Shit—ah!” you cry, his cock at this angle nearly splitting you in half.  He continues digging into you, and your breath is stuck in your chest, only coming out in sparse squeaks as he expands your walls.  He grips your ass hard and spreads you open for him, salivating at the way your pussy grips and creams him.  When he finally bottoms out, your vision blanks momentarily.  Your organs feel shifted, like he’s quite literally rearranging your guts. 

“Y’alright, babygirl?  Is it too much?” he asks, a hand smoothing up and down your back as he waits for your cue to move.  Your right hand is stuck to the wall, your forehead pressed against it for support as you try to regain your breath and relax your muscles.  “Need to hear you’re alright,” he reminds you.

“Please move, Joel—oh!” the end of your sentence a response to the sudden removal of his cock.  He pushes the tip into you again, slowly, hissing as you grip him.

“Ohhhh, baby—so goddamn tight,” he groans, and with no warning, he slams into you fully.  Eyes rolling back into your head, you scream, overwhelmed by the sharp pain and pleasure of his entrance.  He continues this punishing pace—out slowly, tip in, bam.  You don’t even feel the dull ache of your arm anymore, only the delicious stretch of his cock and the painful aftershocks of his tip careening into your cervix.  Hell, you might even bleed from this, how rough this sex is, but it feels so fucking good—his ravaging your body, hands squeezing your ass and hips so tightly you’ll bruise, him spitting your name and various expletives—you don’t want it to stop.  It’s like he’s punishing you for not-quite-almost-dying, overcome by the emotions of what happened to you and seeing you broken but alive.  Like he’s making sure you are alive.

“Perfect fuckin’ pussy,” he cries, thrusts losing their mojo and growing erratic as you continue to grip and soak him.  “Baby, I’m close—need another one from you,” he pleads, hand grabbing your wrist to keep your torso up.

“Faster, Joel, please, I’m there—,” you moan.  He obliges, and five quick thrusts in, the world bleeds white and your body fades into euphoric oblivion.  Your ears are ringing, vision blank, body in overdrive from the sheer pleasure and intensity of your orgasm—you can’t hear him curse and groan as he comes inside you, breath knocking through his teeth as he spits your name.  You feel his warm chest fold over your back, feel his soft lips and tongue on your shoulder, neck, ear, and when he turns you around so he can kiss you, you finally regain your hearing.  The spray of water and your breaths are a noticeable contrast to the skin slapping and loud cries from just moments ago.  The kiss is passionate, soft, slow, like he’s trying to tell you something—you can feel how much he cares for you in the way his arms embrace you, the way his lips revere your skin.  He pulls back and looks at you with that… look.  Again.

“Seein’ you come is somethin’ else—never seen anything like that,” he admits, eyes boring into you.  You feel yourself suddenly become shy, his praise chipping down stone walls you have built inside.  He kisses your forehead.

“C’mon, lemme wash you up,” he says, leading you to one of the showerheads.  He washes your hair with some of Sarah’s shampoo that was here last time—his long fingers massage your scalp with perfect pressure and rhythm.  You might fall asleep right here, fucked-out and exhausted from the pain meds filtering through your system.  He rubs body wash over you, making sure to get all the crevices, and pulls some giggles from you in the process.  You want to wash him in return, prove you’re not totally useless with your arm wrapped up in the cast cover.  He picks up his shampoo and opens the lid, and you hold your right hand out.

“Y’sure, baby?” he asks, wet hair covering his face and eyes.  He looks so handsome like this—curls dripping on his face, chest, and neck, squinting at you so he can see.

“Let me.  Please.”  He nods and squirts soap into your palm and a little more on his scalp.  You do your best to massage his scalp with your free hand, but your arm gets tired fast.

“Sit down, Joel,” you offer.  He prods over to the seating area, giving you a full view of his cute butt.  You smack it lightly and laugh.

“Watch it, sweetheart—I ain’t got the energy to chase ya,” he warns, smirk on his face and eyes playful.  He sits, eye level at your chest.  He’s staring at you, hard.  You’re trying not to get flustered, but his intense gaze is not helping.

“Close your eyes, babe,” you command softly.  He smiles at you calling him that.

“Can’t look at my girl while she washes my hair?” he says.  My girl.  You ignore the fluttering of your heart.

“Nope, I have stage fright.  Shut ‘em,” he rolls his eyes and obliges.

You work your fingers into his scalp, noticing how entranced he is by your touch.  It’s nice—domestic, almost.  Once you’re done with his hair, you walk back over to grab his body wash and massage his shoulders, chest, and back, pulling some moans and groans from him.  Eyes still clamped shut, you lead him back to one of the shower heads and help him rinse.  You watch his muscles flex as he rinses his hair, and you wrap your arms around his midsection when he’s done.  He’s quick to return the favor, fingers gently rubbing the muscles of your shoulders and upper back.  You two stand there for a moment before he leans in to kiss you gently.

“You’re so good to me, baby,” he murmurs, smoothing your wet hair back.

“Me?  I think you have me confused with yourself,” you say, surprised.  “You’re the one taking care of me.”  He scoffs.

“You don’t realize what you’re doin’ to me, darlin’—just you bein’ here is takin’ care of me,” he says, tone sounding almost afflicted.  You’re almost caught off guard by his affectionate words.  He’s doing that thing again, trying to tell you something without saying it explicitly.  His amber eyes are glowing at you.  He’s happy.  You believe him, that just being here with him is enough.

Fuck.  You clamp your lips together, making sure you don’t say something you’ll regret and kiss him instead.

“Been in here long enough, you hungry?” he says, pulling away after a bit.  You nod.

“Let’s eat and do whatever ya want—watch a movie, anything,” he offers, leaving your embrace to turn off the shower heads.

He helps dry you off and leads you downstairs.  You insisted on wearing his clothes, again, which he couldn’t complain about.  You decided on watching some Netflix, needing to distract your brain with some trash TV.  Joel makes popcorn and gives you a big glass of water as he snuggles up next to you on the leather couch, throwing a big fleece blanket over both of you.  The couch is fancy, of course—it’s a three-part sectional, and each section can recline almost completely horizontal.  He lets you scroll through Netflix aimlessly for a few minutes before snatching the remote from you.

“Hey!  I was just getting to the good stuff,” you complain playfully.  He tsks at you.

“Takin’ too long, pretty girl—when Sarah does this, I know we’re about to watch somethin’ cringy,” he says, finally picking NCIS.  He’s never watched this before.

“Season 8, Joel,” you direct him.  You’ve seen most of these episodes at least twice.  He picks a random episode and leans forward to put the remote on the coffee table in front of your feet before sinking back into the couch with you.  The theme song starts playing and you immediately bob your head from side to side—it’s so catchy, you probably do it every time it plays.  Joel looks down at you and laughs.

“Take it you’re a dancer, then?” he asks.

“Depends on the type of dancing.  Not a square dancer, that’s for sure,” you say with a playful snub, knowing already that that’s the only dancing Joel does.  He feigns offense, mouth dropping open.

“That’ll change, baby – I can guarantee you that,” he says with a smirk.

“Fine, but then you have to go to a club with me—only fair,” you challenge him, shrugging matter-of-factly.  He raises his eyebrows at you, expression saying this girl is losing her shit.

“They have an age limit, darlin’,” he lies, one side of his mouth stuck in a half-smile.  You smack his arm playfully.

“They’d only know how old you are if you showed them your ID,” you remind him.  He scoffs and points to his greying curls.  “They’d see these and know immediately.”

“What, your hair or your perpetual scowl?” you tease, finger rubbing the wrinkles in his forehead.  He emits a loud, guttural laugh and grabs your hand, giving it a quick kiss before he releases it.

“Fuckin’ comedian over here, god damn,” he says, chuckling and shaking his head.  “Eat your damn popcorn before I shove it in your mouth,” he warns jokingly.  You’re in a goofy mood.

“Shove what in my mouth, Joel?” you tease, eyes glued to the TV.  His breath hitches for a moment and you see him lean toward you in your peripheral vision.  His lips rustle the hair by your ear, making you shiver.

“Don’t get me started, baby—you know how much I love your pretty mouth,” he rasps in your ear, Southern accent laced with a lusty warning.  Your core tingles and your face heats up.  You’re not exactly sure what it is about him that does this to you, but you’d let him have his way with you anywhere, anytime.  He kisses your temple and pulls you into him as the episode continues.  He sneaks a hand up your shirt and rubs your back, the warmth and comfort lulling you to sleep.

Friday, October 22nd | 0643

The sound of skin sliding on leather pulls you from slumber.  You’re on Joel’s couch, snuggling into his warm chest.  He must’ve turned over on the couch, causing the noise—his shirt has ridden up just enough for you to see his happy trail cascading into his boxers.  The couch is reclined all the way down, forming a makeshift bed in his living room.  You must’ve fallen asleep, and you bet Joel was too tired to carry you up to his room—there was no way he was going to try and wake you.  You tighten your grip on him and take in his scent—cotton, sandalwood, spice.  His body wash mixed with clean laundry.  You could lie here forever, but he’s a light sleeper and notices you’re awake.

“S’early, baby—go back to sleep,” he says, eyes still shut and voice grumbly from sleep.  You giggle softly.

“What are you, Father Time?  You haven’t even opened your eyes yet,” you tease.  He chuckles and pulls you on top of him, your head still tucked into the nook of his neck.  His warm hands slide under your shirt and scan your back softly.

“Don’t need to, I know it’s before 7,” he murmurs.  His sleep-soaked voice is enough to arouse you right now—raspy, deep, sexy.  You’re tired, though, and your arm aches.  You roll off him and sit up, wincing audibly at the throbbing of your arm.

“Need medicine?” he asks you, leaning over to put his head in your lap.  You smooth a hand through his stubble and admire him, sleepy eyes struggling to peek at you.  Soft morning light outlines his cheekbones, nose, and chin.  He’s quick to tell you how beautiful you are, but he’s a stunner in his own right.  You brush some stray curls from his face and stroke his cheek with your thumb.  A soft mmm escapes his throat as he leans his head into your touch.

“Don’t wanna get up,” you whisper, still staring at him.  Finally, he opens his eyes and deep chocolate stares back at you.  His gaze is longing, tired, happy.

“Kiss me,” he pleads softly, placing a warm hand over yours, still busy caressing his face.  You oblige and lean down to press your lips softly to his.  Neither of you try to deepen it just yet—you’re both cherishing these softer, more domestic moments between the two of you.  Your lips are communicating what your words can’t just yet—but you both understand.  After a while, your arm starts bothering you again, prickles of pain dancing up your arm to your shoulder.  You pull away and start massaging your shoulder with your free hand.

“Yeah, y’need your medicine, baby.  Hang tight,” he says, rolling off your lap and standing up from the couch.  Your soft kisses clearly drove him crazy—there’s a tent in his boxers.  He catches you staring at it and smirks at you.

“Once you’re feelin’ better, it’s all yours,” he says with a tired wink.  Fuck.  You already know you’re wet and ready for him.  This man is so good to you in all ways, you can’t tell if your arousal is from seeing him turned on, or from the way he cares for you.

He grabs the now-empty glass of water from the coffee table and pads into the kitchen to retrieve your pills from their hiding spot.  He comes back, glass full and half a pill in hand.  You pop the pill onto the back of your tongue and chug until the glass is half empty.

“Good girl,” Joel praises as he watches you.  His words make you choke a bit and you sputter, some water spilling out of your mouth.  He laughs and leans in, kissing the drops of water leaking down your chin and neck.  He continues kissing down your neck, pulling your collar down so his lips and teeth can graze your collarbone and top of your chest.  Your body responds quickly, breaths quickening and pussy throbbing.

“Darlin’, I don’t know if I can wait.  I want you,” he says, pulling back to look in your eyes.  He looks fucking wrecked again.

“Fuck me, Joel,” you plead, staring back at him.  His eyes widen slightly, then flash with mischief and lust.

Suddenly, your sweats and panties are gone in one swoop, tossed into a pile on the floor with his boxers.  He’s slotted between your legs, tongue licking into your mouth ravenously.  He pulls back and rubs the head of his cock on your clit, watching your slick coat him with a moan.

“Fuck, baby— ‘s’all this for me?” he groans.

“Yes—all of it.  Need you, Joel,” you whine impatiently, craving him inside you.  Your clit is on fire from his teasing and you’re dripping for him.

“Okay, okay.  I got you, angel,” he soothes.  He pulls your shirt up over your breasts, leaning down to suck one of your needy nipples into his mouth.  You gasp at the sensation.  It’s not enough, though—you need him to fill you up.  Now.  You reach down with your good hand and tug on his curls, pulling his mouth up to yours.  He moans as your lips mesh with his and he lines his cock up at your entrance.  He pulls back to watch where your bodies meet and groans as he slowly enters you.

You gasp again at the stretch, still not used to his size and girth.  Your eyes attempt to squeeze shut, but you remember how much he likes seeing your eyes and try your best to keep them open.  Salty tears sting as they well up in your eyes.

“Good girl, baby, shit—I love those beautiful eyes,” he croons.  He fills you to the hilt and pauses, feeling your pussy contract around him.  His neck is flushed, veins popping out—he’s trying so hard not to let go and just fuck you senseless.  You want him to, though.  You reach up and touch his cheek.  He looks down at you, surprised.

“Take what you want, Joel,” you tell him.  He turns his head to kiss your palm.

“Not yet.  Need you to come for me first,” he says, slowly pulling out of you, eyes still locked on yours.  He presses himself flush to you and cradles your head in his hands.  Your fingernails are glued to his broad, strong back, digging half-moons into his skin.  He starts a quick and hard rhythm of thrusting in and out of you, pulling deep moans from you every time he bottoms out.  The pressure and stretching are so intense, it feels like your body is incapable doing anything except gripping Joel’s back muscles, staring into his amber eyes, and taking his hard thrusts.  Your chest and stomach tighten, breaths escaping at quick intervals.  You’re at a point now where you can’t make much else noise—the pleasure is stealing the air from your lungs.  You’re close.  He knows it—but needs to hear it from you.

“Tell me, darlin’—tell me how it feels,” he urges, eyes squeezing shut as you clamp down on him.

“Feels so good, Joel,” you finally huff.  He growls and slots his lips onto yours, sucking on your bottom lip as he pulls back.

“Perfect as fuck,” he curses, trying to maintain rhythm.  You’re squeezing him so tight and you’re so wet, he won’t last much longer.  He licks his fingertips and reaches down to rub your clit in circles that correspond with the timing of his thrusts.

“Oh, god!” you cry out, shockwaves of pleasure reverberating through your body.

“C’mon, baby—come for me,” he pleads, watching your facial expressions as you approach orgasm.  He swipes his fingers around your clit a few more times and your world shatters.  Your vision fades to black as you climax.  He continues to fuck you through it, slowing his pace as he praises you.  That’s it, baby girl.  Fuck, you’re beautiful.  Best pussy ever.  You’re so fucked out, you don’t even register when he cries out your name and latches his mouth on one of your nipples as he empties himself inside you.  He lies his head on your chest and rests on you for a moment before pulling out of you and standing up to throw his boxers back on.  You grunt at the loss.

“Shit… can’t keep my fuckin’ hands off you,” he says, panting and staring down at you as he pushes some stray curls off his sweaty forehead.  Your breasts are still exposed, nipples taut from the cool air.  Red marks from his mouth dot your chest, droplets of sweat gathered in the middle.  His eyes swipe down your figure and continue their admiration.  Your mound is covered in short stubble—you haven’t shaved in a while, with everything going on.  Joel looks forward to it scraping his face the next time he tastes you.  You’re watching him stare, a smirk creeping on your face.

“Take a picture,” you offer, winking at him.  His eyes widen and he chuckles, shaking his head.  “I’d never be able to stop lookin’ at it—might get me fired.”

“Well, the offer still stands.  Expiration date is never,” you say with a sly smile.  His eyes rake over your body once more and he whistles before going into the kitchen to find a towel to clean you up.  You pull your phone up from the coffee table and check the time.  0716.  Still early.

“D’y’want coffee, darlin’?  Or d’y’wanna go back to sleep?” he asks as he wipes up your thighs.  You shrug.  It’s not like you have anything pressing to do today.  He walks back into the kitchen and starts a pot of coffee.  You stand up slowly and put your panties and sweats back on, stretching once you’re fully clothed again.  Joel calls out to you from the kitchen.

“Got ya somethin’,” he says.  You make your way to him, yawning and rubbing your eyes.  You look on the counter and see a stainless steel frother, humming softly as it spins around some half and half.  You smile and pull Joel into a hug, kissing his neck as you embrace.

“Thank you—you’re so thoughtful,” you whisper.  His hands rub your back, and he turns his head to kiss you chastely.

“Anything for my girl,” he whispers back, soft brown eyes flicking between yours.  His eyes are so emotive—he’s always telling you so many things simultaneously.  Even though it’s been a short time since you’ve known him, you know that he does love you.  He wouldn’t ever need to say it out loud—the eyes would always let you know.  He kisses you again before releasing you from his embrace.

“So… coffee and sleep.  That’s what I choose,” you tell him as you get mugs out for both of you from the cabinet.  He laughs softly and takes a seat at the kitchen table.  “Sounds good t’me—gotta do some work later, but I got all day for that.  Y’want me to arrange have your car brought here?  I know y’can’t drive yet, but I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped… Y’got the garage code and can come and go whenever you need to, darlin’,” he says, watching you bring the mugs over to the table.  He looks apprehensive, worried—like part of him thinks he’s suffocating you.  You frown at him as you set them down.

“I’m in no hurry to be anywhere, Joel, but you can have it brought here.  I really appreciate you taking care of me, seriously,” you say as you sit down across from him, reaching to embrace his forearm in a reassuring manner.  “I don’t plan on driving until I’m done with these pain meds, anyway—my first psych appointment isn’t until next week.”  He nods and reaches for his mug, eyes never leaving you as he takes a sip.  He sets his mug down and laces his fingers with yours, eyes still blazing into yours.

“Just wanna make sure y’got everything y’need, baby,” he says softly.  He brings your hand up to his lips and kisses the back of it tenderly.  His phone rings from the other side of the kitchen, interrupting your sweet moment.  He apologizes and releases your hand as he stands to go find his phone.  He picks it up and stares at the caller ID.

“Sarah,” he mouths, showing you the screen.  You nod.  He walks into the living room and answers with a “Hi, sweetheart.”  You grin at his greeting.  He’s a sweet man who loves his daughter—and you, clearly, given the fact that he also greets you the same way.  They chat for a bit, and it reminds you to check your phone for any notifications.  Your mom has called about a dozen times.  Fuck.  She’s probably listed as your emergency contact, so no doubt the hospital called her after the incident.  You decide it’s probably best to call her back and let her know you’re okay.  She picks up after the first ring.

“Thank goodness you’re alright,” she exasperates, voice clearly panicked.

“Hey, Mom.  Yeah, I’m good.  Crazy donor came back to get his vengeance,” you say with a sarcastic tone.  To your surprise, she laughs.

“I hear you got some stitches—are you alright?  Is anyone helping take care of you?  I can drive down and h—,” she stammers quickly.  You interrupt in a calm voice.

“I’m okay, Mom, really.  I had fourteen stitches and yes, I am being well taken care of,” you promise her, choosing your words carefully and peering over to Joel.  She’s going to ask anyway.

“By whom?  Anybody from work?”  You swallow nervously and prepare to tell her the truth.  Wait, why am I scared?  I’m an adult—she can’t do anything.

“No, actually… I sort of have a boyfriend, and he’s been taking care of me,” you reply, voice slightly hesitant.  The line is quiet for a few seconds.

“Oh—boyfriend?  I had no idea.  Hopefully he’s a nice young man,” she says.  You smirk.  Young man.  She’ll find out eventually.

“It’s fairly new, but yes—he is awesome.  Met him at work.  He has a contracting business here in Omaha,” you add, careful not to add too much information.

“Wow—successful, then.  Hopefully you bring him out here to meet everyone,” she says, clearly surprised.  You feel your cheeks turning hot at the prospect of Joel meeting your crazy family.

“Yep.  He’s going to come with me to visit Grandma at the beginning of November.”

“Ah, good.  So, you have dates?  I’ll let your aunt and the hospice home know in advance.  Do you know where you are staying?”

“November 1st through the 8th, I believe.  And no—not yet.  Might just find an Airbnb out there,” you add cautiously.  You don’t want to stay with her—she’d probably make you and Joel sleep in separate rooms.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here or at Grandma’s—I’m sure the place needs some tidying up, but nobody is there now.  I go out each week to make sure everything is in order,” she says.  That’s not a bad idea.  Your grandma has a nicely sized farmhouse.  The animals have long been gone since your grandpa passed, but the scenery is gorgeous.  And—you and Joel would have the house to yourself.

“Maybe we’ll do that.  Joel can probably fix up some things around the house, too,” you offer, realizing after the fact that you shared his name with your mom.

“That would be lovely, and your grandmother would appreciate that.  The house will have to be put up for sale at some point, I would assume,” she says.  You see Joel come back into the kitchen out of the corner of your eye.  You turn and look at him, and he gives a questioning thumbs up and raises his eyebrows at you.  You close your eyes and give him a quick close-lipped grin and nod.

“Sounds good.  Well, I gotta get going, but I’ll see you soon,” you tell her lightheartedly, hoping you don’t sound eager to get off the phone with her.

“Okay, dear.  You let me know how you’re recovering, alright?  I worry,” she adds, tone stern but caring.

“I will.  Bye, Mom,” you say, hanging up after she parrots her goodbye to you.  Joel comes over to the table and starts rubbing your shoulders as you set your phone down.

“Sounds like a civil conversation,” he croons, leaning down by your earlobe.  His velvety voice tickles your eardrum and sends goosebumps down your neck and arm.  He kisses the soft skin anterior to your tragus and continues working his mouth down your jawline and neck.  You moan softly and reach up to grip his hair.  He growls at your noise and touch.

“Hmm… reckon we’re teenagers, eh?” he says into your ear, deep voice muddled with lust.  “Can’t go two fuckin’ seconds without you makin’ me hard as a rock, sweetheart.”  He sucks your earlobe into his mouth with a quiet moan, and your stomach drops with excitement.  He stops kissing you abruptly and stands up straight, adjusting himself in his boxers.  You turn and look at him inquisitively, raising one eyebrow.  He grins—he loves that he does this to you, makes you squirm and lust for him just like he does for you.

“Soon, baby.  Y’need to get some rest.  Sarah is coming up tomorrow ‘n’ I want you to meet her.”  Your stomach flips.  You’re not nervous that she won’t like you or that you won’t have much in common, but this is a big step in your relationship with Joel.  You puff out a deep breath.

“I’m in no condition for visitors, I’m afraid,” you say sarcastically, lifting your bandaged arm.  He spits out a laugh.

“I’ll make sure you’re in tip-top shape, baby girl.  Promise,” he says with a wink.  Yeah… you believe him.

Monday, October 18th | 0830

You wake to find that it’s still raining.  You went to bed earlier than usual last night, tired from your errands and your much-needed orgasm.  Unfortunately, it did nothing to satiate you.  Your mind was running amok, the anticipation of this evening was making everything worse.  Sighing, you roll over and grab your phone to check your notifications.  One from your mom and one from Joel.  Mom never texts me, you think.  You decide to deal with the bad news first.

Mom: Hey.  Call me when you have a chance.  Need to talk to you. 

Rolling your eyes, you don’t respond.  She probably wants to know if you’ve been to church and why you haven’t come to see her in x number of months.  You scroll down from the top to click on Joel’s message.

Joel: Morning.  Can’t wait to see you later today.

Your chest flutters as you type a response.

You: Same here.  Hopefully the rain stops soon.

Joel: Sounds like it’s going to keep on until later this week.  Do you have an umbrella?

You: I don’t think so, actually.  I’m not a very good Nebraskan

Joel: I have a few, I’ll make sure there’s some in my truck when I come get you.

You: Thank you. *kissy face emoji*

Joel: Need more of those.

You: Real kisses or emoji kisses?

Joel: All of it.

You finally get out of bed, make your coffee, put on a fresh face, and head to the gym.  You figure exercising will calm the nerves.  After a tough session on the stair stepper, you stop to get some last-minute things at the grocery store and head back home, eager to finish the rest of the day and see Joel.

Monday, October 18th | 1745

Glancing one last time in the mirror, you give yourself a mental thumbs up.  Your dress is hugging everything just right, and your makeup looks flawless.  You must admit, you look fucking good.  You can only imagine what Joel looks like.  Slicked back hair, or tousled curls?  Slacks and a button up?  Either way, he’s going to look mouthwatering.  You throw some fresh panties, a toothbrush, and some day-after clothes in your purse, just in case.

Your fantasy is interrupted by a knock at the door.  Your eyes widen and you look in the mirror one more time just to make sure all your bases are covered.  You open the door and see Joel standing there, your breath catching in your throat at the sight of him.

“Evening, sweetheart.  You look—,” he abruptly stops, sucking in a sharp breath and taking you in.  He breathes your name quietly, as if all the air in his lungs has been snatched out of them.  He looks at you like you’re the end-all-be-all.  Awe and desire shimmer in his eyes as they flick up and down your figure.  You’re doing the same.  He’s got navy slacks on, brown leather shoes, and a white button up underneath a matching navy blazer.  No tie.  His top two buttons are undone, revealing tanned skin on his broad chest that you want to touch so badly.  His hair is slicked a bit at the sides, leaving a few dark tendrils from the top that reach down and kiss his forehead.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he croons, putting his umbrella down and taking your hands in his as he enters your apartment.

“You are, too,” you say, pulling him closer and wrapping your hands around his forearms as he moves his hands to hold your waist.  He stares at your face for a while, his expression mirroring that of the night at the bar, right before he kissed you.  He leans in and places a kiss on the corner of your mouth.  You turn your head slightly and catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“Nothing I imagined even came close to this,” he says as he pulls away.  You smile, your cheeks warming at his words.  Once again, your stomach ruins the moment with a loud gargle.  Joel laughs softly.  “Guess we should get goin’, then?”  You nod, clutching your stomach in embarrassment.  You put on your fuzzy sweater and grab your purse.  Joel leads you out of your apartment with one hand on your lower back, umbrella ready to go in the other.

When you both step out of the building, it’s pouring.  Joel opens the umbrella, and you scan the lot for his truck.  He points to a spot adjacent to the door, maybe 10 steps away.  Sighing with relief, you let him guide you to the passenger door.  He opens it for you, moving his hand from your back to your hand to give you a boost.  No guy has been so chivalrous to you – at least, not without expecting something physical in return.  You don’t think Joel is that way – but you want to make him feel good.

He turns the truck on and backs out, leaning on the center console with his right elbow.  He smells different than he did at the bar – less whiskey and spice, woodier with a glint of citrus.  You turn in your seat to admire him as he drives.  The curve of his nose, thick curls dipping down his brow, freshly trimmed black-and-white beard, thick and veiny neck.  His shirt exposes the perfect amount of his neck and chest, the sun-kissed rods of his collarbone peeking, no hair to be seen.  You can’t really see him as the type to get waxed – must be natural or rubbed away by the friction of wearing his thick flannel shirts for years on end.  He notices you ogling him, and the right side of his face curls up in a smirk.

“You alright over there, darlin’?” He cranes his neck your way, moving his hand to rest on the skin above your knee.  You relish the warmth of it.

“You clean up nicely, Miller.  And you smell good.”

“You should see yourself.  God damn,” he says with a squeeze on your knee.  It sends white-hot electricity bolting up your leg to your core.  He turns to look at you, his gaze molten with desire.  You gulp and break eye contact first.  You won’t make it into the restaurant if he keeps looking at you like that.

Thankfully, the universe gives you a break and he finally pulls into the parking lot of an impressive Italian Restaurant, Spezia.  The restaurant is an old brick building laced with vines; string lights are crisscrossed above the patio area and the name of the restaurant is carved in soft green, cursive neon light above the big front wooden doors.  You’d heard a lot of good things about this place but had never been.  As he parks, you instinctively pull on your door handle before catching yourself.  You turn and see Joel, staring at you with his head tilted and one eyebrow raised as if to scold you.  You give him a close-lipped grin.  “Sorry, keep forgetting!  Just not used to this,” you say, removing your hand from the handle.

“Good girl… we’re gonna change that,” he murmurs, which makes the hairs on the back of your neck stick up straight.  Fuck.  He gets out and walks over to open your door.  You hadn’t noticed that the rain stopped on your way over – too mesmerized by Joel.  Guess the universe is looking out for you.  He holds out his hand and helps you out, offering you his arm as both of you walk to the front door.

Inside is a dimly lit, open dining room with an array of circle-shaped tables donned in white tablecloths.  Tealights are flickering on the tables.  Scents of garlic, parmesan, and spices envelope your nostrils.  Low music plays, chords of a cello intertwined with a piano and a Sinatra-sounding voice.  This is quite romantic – Joel did good.  The hostess smiles at both of you.  “Reservation for Miller,” Joel says in his gruff voice.  She grabs two small black books from behind the podium and beckons you two to follow her.  She walks to a table near the windows, two full wine glasses waiting for you at each placemat.  It’s white wine, which is perfect – you hate reds.  How did he know?  “Your server will be with you right away,” she says with a smile.  You thank her.

Joel pulls your chair out so you can sit first, his hand brushing your back as he walks over to his seat.  You pick up your wine glass and give it a sniff.  Sweet, fruity, bubbly – must be moscato.  “Did you get some ideas from Keri?” you inquire, raising an eyebrow at him as you take a sip.  It’s smooth and not overly sweet, with notes of apple, orange, and honey.  He grins.  “I’ll never tell, darlin’.  Only thing that matters is that you enjoy it.”  He cheers your glass and takes a sip, eyes never leaving yours.

You two order some appetizers and entrees when the server comes over.  You’re falling into the rhythm of comfortable conversation, once again.  He asks about school, your family, your early life.  You mention your dad’s death and your rough relationship with your mother, which nearly dissipated after you graduated.

“So, I take it you got a degree, then?” he says, swirling around his glass of wine as he watches you.

“Yep.  Biochemistry,” you say, hoping that doesn’t lull him to sleep.  You half expect him to ask you why you didn’t become a doctor, the way most people do when they hear biochemistry degree.  He sucks in a sharp breath.  “Smart, then.  Too fuckin’ smart for me.  Knew you were, obviously – but that’s proof.  Not an easy road.  Sarah’s doing nursing,” he says.

“Nursing is tough, too – especially in these days post-pandemic.  So much is expected of nurses, but they don’t get the pay or respect they deserve unless they’re traveling nurses,” you add.  He nods.  “She’s wanted to be a nurse ever since she was a little girl.  Stubborn one, my daughter,” he says with a smirk.

“Can’t imagine where she gets it from,” you tease, looking around in mock surprise.  He reaches over to squeeze your hand.

“Shut it, beautiful.  Y’aint that much better, yourself,” he says.  He’s not wrong.  Your showdown with Cedric probably told him as much.

Your food comes and you both spend the rest of the dinner enjoying it and a few more glasses of wine.  You continue getting to know each other in between bites – or during if you’re Joel.  The server comes over with the check and gives it to Joel.  He opens it and reads with no reaction on his face and pulls out his wallet to pay.  You interrupt him by putting a hand on his arm.

“We can split it, if you want,” you say cautiously.  He shakes his head and smiles at you.  “’Preciate it, sweetheart.  But I’m sticking to my roots here.  You deserve a nice night out, and I’m happy to give that to you.”  His words make you smile softly.

After the bill comes back, he walks over to pull your chair out and helps you up.  You peek outside the window and see that it’s dark now, and the rain is gone for good.  “Where to next?” you ask, feigning innocence.  He looks at you in a way that makes your stomach churn.

“Want to come over?  I’d like to ask you to stay if you’re comfortable.  Do you need clothes?” he asks, warm hand curling around your waist as you exit the restaurant.  Thanking your past self for packing some clothes, you shake your head.  “I’m prepared.”  He raises an eyebrow at you.  You smile nervously.

“Expected me to ask ya that, huh?” he says, smirking devilishly.  You nod matter-of-factly.  He laughs and leans in, so his lips are almost touching your ear.  “I always keep my promises, darlin’,” he says in a sexy, low voice, making you clench absolutely nothing.  You shudder.  He opens your door for you and helps you in.

The ride back to Joel’s is quiet, but not in an awkward way.  He lives in the Eagle Run neighborhood of West Omaha – an upper middle-class neighborhood near a big golf course.  He pulls up to a big, beautiful two-story brick house and clicks on a garage door opener hanging on his vanity mirror.  You’re surprised, but should you be?  He is a successful business owner with multiple locations in the U.S., after all.  The front yard is lined with neatly trimmed shrubbery – Joel’s handiwork, you think – bushes of gorgeous flame azaleas, and two large, older maple trees staked in the middle, leaves sporting a beautiful gradient of red to yellow.  He has a Texas Longhorns stone on his front porch that makes you grimace.

“Joel, if we keep seeing each other, that Longhorns stone has got to go.  You’re in Cornhusker country now,” you scold playfully.  He laughs, silently rejoicing at the notion that you want to keep seeing him.  “Darlin’, I’m a true Texas man, and I’m from Austin for Christ’s sake.  You’re not even old enough to see how far back the rivalry goes.  I’ll never like your Huskers,” he chides.  You stick your tongue out at him and open your own door.  He doesn’t protest this time.  He’s got a three-car garage, the two-car space filled with what appears to be a company truck.  “Miller Contracting” is stickered on the back window.  The single-car space has a nice BMW 740i sedan that makes your eyes widen.

“Is this your car, Joel?”  you ask, walking over to examine it.  It has a pearlescent navy-blue coat with a tan leather interior.  Sheepishly, he nods.

“When Tommy and I expanded the business, we finally had the time to realize how well we had been doing.  I decided to treat myself for once – I got Sarah a car and bought this for myself.  Too much, if you ask me, but it’s a sign of how far we’ve come.  Reminds me to keep goin’,” he says, looking at the car appreciatively.  He’s obviously impressed you from the jump, but now you’re curious as to why he donates plasma – he clearly doesn’t need to.

“So, you donate out of the goodness of your heart, then?” you tease.  He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.  “The money is gonna go to Sarah, so she’s got some fun money.  She works, and I give her money now and then, but want her to understand it all comes with a limit,” he says.  Good dad – teaching his daughter responsibility and sacrificing his time and bodily fluids while doing it.  You nod.  He opens the door to the house and beckons you to go in first.

The door leads into a large laundry room.  He guides you through there and into the kitchen, which makes your jaw drop.  Beautiful, shiny hardwood floors are the first thing you notice – again, you’d be surprised if Joel hadn’t done these himself.  In the middle is an enormous island, with a deep sink and stainless-steel dishwasher.  The refrigerator, also stainless-steel, is probably twice the width of the dinky one in your apartment.  Adjacent to it is a beer and wine fridge, filled with bottles of red and white wine, and tons of Coors Light.  You smirk, thinking Joel was just a whiskey guy.  You bet he has a full bar downstairs with tons of different whiskeys.  Countertops of gorgeous white and black marble draw your attention, and you find yourself running a hand over the top of one instinctively.  Smooth.  Joel admires you while you admire his kitchen.

“Want something to drink, darlin’?” he asks, grabbing two wine glasses out of the cupboard near the fridge.  “Got wine, beer, and your fav’ downstairs,” he adds with a wink.  Whiskey, duh.  You’re not drunk, and your nerves are starting to rein in.  “Wine is good – keep the theme of the night going,” you say, flashing your teeth at him.  They draw his eyes like a magnet, and they flash obsidian.  He pops the cork out of a bottle of some white wine and pours you both a glass.  You walk over and grab the bottle to inspect the label.   Chateau d'Yquem, 2020.  You don’t dare guess how much this cost.  Joel notices your curiosity.

“S’from a client that lives ‘round here,” he says, sauntering over you, glasses in hand.  You nod.  “Oh?  Contracting client or…?” you ponder, smirking at him with one eyebrow raised.  “Let’s just say I’m good with my hands,” he winks at you and hands you a glass.

You take a sip, closing your eyes to examine the flavors.  Sweet citrus hits you first – mango, pineapple, apricot – followed by a rush of sea salt and an almost yeasty flavor.  The wine you’re used to drinking is Barefoot and sickly sweet – this is otherworldly.  You find yourself moaning softly.  “Wow, Joel… that’s – that’s something else,” you say, noticing him white-knuckling the countertop with his free hand, clearly affected by your reaction to the wine.

He puts his glass down and takes his jacket off, walking back to the laundry room to hang it up.  You’re leaning stomach-first against the island, facing what looks like a dining area with some large bay windows.  His footsteps approach you and hands smooth around your waist to latch in front of you, on your stomach.  His warm frame envelopes your back.  You sink into him and lean your head back on his shoulder.  He kisses your neck, squeezing your stomach and breathing in your scent.  Your breath hitches and you clutch his arms.  His mouth moves up your neck to nibble on your earlobe – he remembers your hot spots – and you gasp, tingles cascading down your spine.  He tucks your hair over to the other side and starts working his lips and teeth on your neck and shoulders.

“Fuck – y-you gonna give me the tour, or what?” you sputter as he bites lightly on your shoulder.  He hums and kisses his way back up your neck, stopping his lips right at your ear.  “Good idea, darlin’,” he murmurs.  He lets go of you briefly, taking your hand to lead you through the dining area to the living room.  It’s a giant room, filled with leather couches, a huge TV mounted on the wall, and high vaulted ceilings.

“Living room,” he says monotonously.  You giggle.  You take it he’s not too keen on hosting.  You wind your way to the front of the house near the front door.  He takes you up the stairs, and you marvel at a modern wood pendant chandelier, casting an amber glow on the foyer.  The walls in this part of the house are a navy blue – must be his favorite color.  He walks to French doors a few paces in front of the staircase and pushes one open, clutching your hand with his other hand still.

You’ve entered a large room with dark gray walls – presumably Joel’s.  There’s a king bed in the middle, two beautiful handcrafted wooden nightstands perched at each side.  A smaller wooden pendant light with a fan hangs on the ceiling, which is also vaulted in this room.  In one corner of the room lies a black leather chair, with a plaid handmade quilt hanging over the back.  Paintings of a forest, mountains, and a buffalo line the walls – very Joel-esque.

The other side of the room leads to a bathroom bigger than your entire apartment.  “Jesus, Joel… your house is beautiful,” you say, stepping in the bathroom and marveling at the size.  A Jacuzzi is on your right, two sinks on your left with a giant LED mirror hanging above them.  Next to the Jacuzzi is a walk-in tiled shower with opposing shower heads and a generous seating area.  You raise your eyebrows at the thought of the activities that could be had in here.

Joel watches you learn the anatomy of his bedroom and bathroom, admiring your childlike curiosity.  You’re beautiful, very much so, but something in your eyes catches his interest – the way you study things.  Eyes inquisitively scanning each part of the room, hands testing whatever theory is in your brain.  He wonders what you see.  You stop studying and turn, catching him staring.  The way he looks at you makes you freeze.  Desire, admiration, amusement.  His eyes travel up and down your frame.  You take slow steps toward him, eyes never leaving his.

“Have I told you that you’re fuckin’ beautiful?” he says hoarsely, hands latching on to your hips as you get close to him.

“I don’t think so…” you say, eyes looking up and to the side in mock confusion.  He pulls you flush to him, and you turn to face him.

“Can’t stop starin’ at you ‘cause you’re so goddamn pretty,” he says in a low, gravelly voice, tilting his head toward you and leaning in.  Your eyes flick down to his parted lips, yours doing the same as you get closer.

When your lips meet, finally, a flame is lit inside you.  Passion overtakes both of you, mouths opening and tongues tangling.  His hands are gripping your hips, your ass, your waist – yours find home in his curls and tug lightly.  You’re reminded of how much he enjoys that when he moans into your mouth.  You’re dripping already, and still, he’s barely touched you.

He picks you up and you break the kiss momentarily with a yelp, causing him to chuckle.  He leads you to the bed and lays you down, hands smoothing down your torso and legs as he stands to remove his shoes.  You watch him quietly, chest heaving in anticipation.  He returns to you as if he can’t bear another moment not glued to you and kisses you, hard.  His teeth graze your lower lip and pull, making you moan.  He kisses the corner of your mouth, the curve of your jaw, down your throat and stops at your clothed collarbone.

“Sit up, sweetheart,” he orders softly.  You obey.  Staring deeply into your eyes, he reaches behind you and pulls the zipper of your dress down.  You remember now that you chose to forgo a bra, but you made sure to wear some sexy lace panties that are soaked through by now.  He pulls the dress off as you reach your arms out, a low growl escaping his throat at the sight of your naked upper body.  “Good god, girl,” he breathes in awe, pulling the dress down your legs to expose your black lace thong.  Black was a good choice – the puddle seeping through is invisible—for now.  You lie back on the bed as he admires your curves and exposed skin.  You see his hardness poking through his pants and his eyes are molten.

Not wanting to go another moment without touching you, he crawls on the bed and kisses you again, one hand curling under your head to support you, the other snaking up your stomach to palm one of your breasts.  You let out a moan as he kneads it, pinching your nipple before he moves to the other one.  He starts kissing down your neck again, down your sternum, moving down further to suck one nipple into his mouth, moaning at the taste.  Your back arches and your hands knead his scalp as you whine softly at the pleasure.  He suckles the other nipple, one of his hands skimming down your stomach to your thigh.  The new touch makes you jump a bit.  He lets go of your nipple with a pop and looks up at you.

“Y’alright, baby?” he says, genuinely concerned.  Smoothing hair out of his face, you nod.  “Haven’t been touched there in a while,” you admit, cheeks warming.  He comes back up to kiss your lips softly.  “I’ll take care of you, I promise,” he says, forehead resting against yours.  You cup his face with your hands and give him a quick kiss.

“I know,” you whisper, lost in his chocolate gaze.  He starts kissing down your torso again and stops once he reaches lace.  You’re squirming a bit, and he peeks up at you, silently asking for your permission.  You nod.  He kisses the inside of your right thigh, ending with a nip before moving to the left one.  Your hips are already grinding in anticipation of what he’ll do next.  Looking in your eyes, he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pulls them down, leaving you completely bare.

“Jesus Christ… so perfect,” he breathes, admiring all of you.  Your pussy is glistening, the mess he’s been creating finally visible to him.  “You’re fuckin’ soaked, baby – you want me this much?”

“Yes, Joel,” you pant, needy.  He growls again.

“You got no idea how much I want you, darlin’,” he says, shuffling down on the bed and hooking one of your legs over his shoulder.  He places wet kisses on your mound and on the sides of your core, not quite touching you where you want him.  You groan.  You feel his smile curve on your inner thigh.

“Tell me, baby, talk to me,” he teases, watching you as his lips inch closer to your cunt.  Your back arches again, frustrated with anticipation and desire.  “I want your mouth on me, Joel,” you whine.

When his tongue finally darts out to taste you, you gasp, hands flying to grip his hair.  He moans at how good you taste, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core.  He starts with slow, flat strokes of his tongue up your center, occasionally stopping to gather more spit and slick at your entrance.  You moan, louder this time, his pace and the warmth of his tongue sending you closer to the edge.  He stops at your bundle of nerves and sucks lightly, which nearly snaps you in half.  His hands hold your hips in an iron grip, preventing you from being excused from the pleasure he’s so willingly giving you.  He pulls his mouth away briefly to look at you, lips and chin glistening.

“Fuck, you taste so goddamn good,” he rumbles, removing one hand from your hip to slowly open you up.  You moan at the stretch – not only has it been a while for you, but he’s got thick fingers.  “So tight, baby – think you can take another?” he says, watching your pussy grip and wet his finger.  You moan in approval, head and eyes rolled back.

“Look at me,” he orders, breathless.  “I wanna see you.”  You lift your head up to watch him as he slips another finger in and crooks them both, your eyes widening and mouth falling open at the expansion of your walls.  You can’t even imagine what his dick will feel like.  He looks absolutely wrecked – as if seeing you undone like this is pushing him to his own edge.

“Good girl,” He praises you, making you swoon.  He latches his mouth onto your pussy again, picking up the pace with his fingers as he licks and sucks on you.  He moans as he eats you out, which only gets you to the top faster – knowing that he loves doing this to you.  Your legs are starting to shake and flex, putting him in a headlock.  He’s pumping his fingers in and out of you, each bump of your G-spot sending white-hot pleasure up your stomach.

“Come on, baby – give it to me,” he says, mouth still on your clit.  You’re gripping his collar, hair, back of his neck, whatever you can grab as you get closer and closer to the peak.

“Fuck, Joel!  I’m so close—” you moan, your breaths coming out in quick, heavy heaves.  He takes this as a challenge, suckling on your folds while moving his head from side to side.  His beard chafes at the skin on your inner thighs.  His fingers curl upward inside you as they continue their ravaging, and you’re done for.  Finally, the band inside you snaps – leaving you trembling and spitting a barrage of Joel’s name and curse words as you come, hard.  He’s loving every minute of it, lapping you up while your muscles spasm around his fingers, legs threatening to crush his skull.  He’s groaning as he watches you come, in awe of your beauty and the pleasure painted on your features.  He only stops when your legs loosen their grip on his shoulders and head, another growl leaving him as he kisses his way up to your body to your lips.  You moan softly as you taste yourself on him.

You realize he’s still fully clothed and reach down to unbutton his shirt.  He quickens the process by removing his belt and then his pants and boxers, struggling to pull them over his rock-hard cock.  Mouths still slotted together, he presses himself flush against you, his naked body warming yours.  You reach down to stroke him, a moan escaping from his lips.  Precome oozes down the head of his cock and you rub it up and down his length.  He’s thick.

“Baby, be careful – I want this to last as long as possible,” he pants, looking just as wrecked as earlier.  You surrender and let go of him, your hands gripping his back as he continues to lick into your mouth while grinding his hips on yours.  The head of his cock strokes your wet folds, causing you both to moan.  He breaks the kiss to look you in the eyes, the only sound in the room your labored breaths.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me – you ready, darlin’?” He asks.  You love that he wants nothing more than to make you feel good.  You nod, biting your lip in excitement.  He sits back on his heels and guides his cock through your folds a few more times, watching you writhe.  He smirks.  “I know, baby.  I’ll give you what you need, don’t worry.”

His cock notches at your entrance and starts to slip in, slowly.  Leaning over you, he grabs your right leg and grapples it over his hip as you both watch each other feel one another for the first time.  Both of your mouths agape, you moan in unison as he slowly sinks further into you.  It’s nothing like either of you have ever felt or imagined—your bodies seem like they’re made for the other.  Each inch he gives you sends shockwaves shooting up your back, and the combination of your warmth, wetness, and tightness is an entirely new sensation for him.

“So beautiful, baby – fuck, you are perfect,” he groans as he fills you up.  The stretch and girth of him rip you apart at first, but the pain fades to achy pleasure as your muscles acclimate to his size.  He’s still watching you, waiting to see what you look like when he’s all the way in.  The tip of his cock hits your cervix, and you cry out, eyes squeezing shut momentarily.  His hand moves to your jaw, pulling your forehead to his and forcing your eyes open.  “Come on, baby – need to see those gorgeous eyes.”

Your walls are spasming, the stretch of him, combined with the pleasure and anticipation of your first time together, overwhelming your muscles with adrenaline.  He reads your mind.  “Relax, baby girl, I got ya,” he soothes, leaning down to kiss you as he slowly starts to pull out of you.  You will yourself to relax just a bit, your body rewarding you with micro-tremors of pleasure.  Still watching you, he quickens his thrusts.  You’re reaching the peak again, brows furrowed and hands gripping him so tightly he might have bruises tomorrow.

He sits up and grasps your hips as he pounds into you harder, the new angle and pressure pushing you over the fucking edge.  His eyes travel from your face to your body beneath him and he tries to commit every snapshot to memory—he can’t stop looking at you, can’t forget this.  Your breasts bouncing with each thrust, the curve of your abdomen and hips, the look of pure bliss on your face—he loves every second of it.

“Gimme another one, baby, know you can do it,” He groans, feeling your muscles gripping him as he continues to pound into you.  The room is filled with an orchestra of skin slapping skin, curses, and cries of pleasure from both of you.   Pleasure and pain intertwine to stretch the band inside you once again, your second orgasm on the brink.  Joel is close, too – eyebrows threaded together, teeth gritted, hands bruising your hipbones, thrusts becoming less and less uniform.

“Fuck, you feel so fuckin’ good, gonna make me come,” he praises, looking into your eyes.  You’re so close, legs trembling again and nails clawing at his forearms, vision blurring as pleasure overtakes the rest of your senses – but you manage to keep your eyes on him.

“Where d’you want it, baby?  I’m close,” he pants, trying desperately to hold on so you can reach another high.

“Inside me—oh, fuck—I’m on the pill,” you respond, trying your hardest to speak coherently.  His eyes darken for a moment, thrilled at the thought of filling you up.  He slows his pace slightly and increases the pressure of his thrusts, and you come hard, high-pitched moans of his name replacing normal speech.  That does it for him.  He spills inside you, each contraction of your pussy sucking more spend out of his cock.  He’s rambling as he empties himself inside you – good girl, you did so good for me, so beautiful when you come.  You’ve never experienced this magnitude of pleasure with someone else, nonetheless felt so connected physically and emotionally.  He collapses on you while still inside you, mouth finding yours for a searing kiss.  He pulls back after a while and brushes your hair from your face, cradling the crown of your head in his hands.  “Told ya I keep my promises,” he says, kissing your forehead softly.  You hum in delight.

You both lie there for a moment, relishing in what both of you can say was the best sex ever.  Joel finally pulls out of you, bringing some of him with him.  He gets up and walks toward the bathroom, returning with a warm towel to clean you up.  You squirm as he wipes you up, still sensitive and thighs raw from his beard scratching you there.

“Sorry, baby,” he apologizes, smiling contritely at you as he wipes up the last remnants of him and you from your thighs.  He returns the towel to the bathroom and comes back to bed, pulling you into his chest, arm draped around your midsection.  You’re about to doze off as Joel turns you to face him, eyes crinkled with worry.  Concerned, you prop yourself on your elbow, mirroring him.

“You okay, Joel?” you ask.  He smiles genuinely at you.  “Yeah, I just—,” he sighs, pushing a stray hair behind your ear, thumb stroking your cheek.  “Didn’t want ya to think I brought ya here just for this.”  His expression is so pained, so worried.  You lean in to kiss him gently on the lips.  “I know, and I didn’t come here just for this,” you remind him, “Truly.”

“I know, baby.  I know we just met, and I’m an old man, but—but you’re special, and I feel like this is different,” he says, staring into your eyes with so much affection it makes you want to cry.  “I want to make sure I do this right.”  He grabs your hand and plants a soft kiss on it.

“I trust you,” you say.  And you do – and he believes you.

Tuesday, October 19th | 0732

Quiet humming of a ceiling fan is the first thing you hear when you wake up.  It’s calm, serene.  Sunlight projects on the top of the walls in the room, mostly filtered by some thick, fancy blinds.  Cool air whips around the room, making you pull the sheets up over your shoulders. You stretch a bit, feeling the newfound soreness between your legs as you point your toes downward.  You groan a little once your ribs have fully expanded and feel a thick, warm arm pull you into an even warmer body.

“Mornin’, pretty girl,” Joel croons, voice raspy and deeper than normal from his slumber.  His beard tickles your neck as he tucks you into him, top arm curling around your chest and bottom arm snaking over your stomach.  “I could get used to waking up like this.”

“Morning, Joel,” you reply groggily, rubbing your eyes briefly.  He kisses your neck softly and begins a trail of kisses up to your ear, pulling a quiet, breathy moan out of you.  The prickles of his beard against your skin are giving you goosebumps, making your nipples form taut peaks underneath his arm.  He notices and starts forming a taut peak of his own behind you.

“Mmm,” he moans, breathing in the scent of your hair while kneading your breast with one of his rough, warm palms, “You still smell so good, darlin’.  Bet you still taste good, too.”  His words shoot straight to your core, and you’re quick to forget about the soreness.  He turns you over on your back and slots himself between your legs.  You look up at him, and fuck, he looks good.  Hair tousled from sleep, eyes tired but brimming with desire, tanned and freckled skin radiating warmth, the dim morning light of the room painting him in soft amber and shadows.  He kisses you softly, tongue gently prodding your lips open.  You palm his chest and smooth your hands upwards, traversing his pecs, collarbone, shoulders, and neck before lodging your fingers in his wiry curls.  You feel his cock growing harder, shrinking the minimal space between the two of you.

His mouth leaves yours only to kiss your cheeks, nose, chin, jaw, whatever is closest at that moment—and it’s soft and sweet, but full of something more than just a night of passion between two almost-strangers—and you’re not hesitant to give him more of you, like you would be if he were just a one-night stand.  You’d have slipped out by now and called an Uber, not relished in waking up in his arms.

His mouth continues its journey south, nipping and soothing at your goosebump-ridden neck, breasts, ribs, the soft skin of your abdomen, the curves of your hips, before he slips underneath the sheet covering the rest of you and hikes your legs over his shoulders.  You feel wetness slide out of you and puddle on the sheets underneath, the anticipation and recollection of his tongue on your most sensitive spots driving you mad.  His teeth graze the seam of your thigh, and his tongue moves closer, closer, closer – stopping just before he gets where you want him.  Your back is arched, hands white-knuckling his wrists and forearms – but you can’t move him.  He’s got an iron grip on you, arms now wrapped underneath your thighs and hands planted firmly on your lower abdomen.  You’re completely at his mercy.  His fingers rub small circles on your delicate skin.  Frustrated, you pull the sheet off his head and look down to see him grinning at you.

“’S’matter, sweetheart?  You’re awful worked up right now,” he teases, still grinning at you but completely hypnotized by you.  Your face is twisted in pleasure, pleasure he hasn’t quite given you yet – you’re right where he wants you.  He can’t wait to work you into a fit of ecstasy.

You groan, attempting to cant your hips up to his oh-so-close mouth, but he’s rendered you immovable.  Reaching for his head, you tug on his curls, satisfied at the moan it creates from him.  “Need your mouth on me—please,” you finally whine.  He beams up at you—devilish, mischievous, lusting—and kisses your mound softly, still maintaining eye contact with you.  Your mouth is agape, breath held tight, head lolled back.  Finally, he kisses your clit gently—once, twice, thrice—each one slower than the last.  You moan softly, still needing more of him.

“Fuck, Joel—your tongue,” you whine again.  He groans into your cunt, the vibrations making your hips grind and toes curl.  He acquiesces and licks a slow, flat stripe from your hole to your clit, pulling a long, loud moan from you.  He growls at the beautiful sound and continues flat strokes of his tongue, remembering how much you enjoyed them the previous night.  His tongue continues razing on your clit, lips, your entrance.  You’re not sure how much time passes as he continues to unravel you from the outside in.  Each lick and suck get you closer to your orgasm, but Joel knows exactly when and how to pull back just slightly to keep you from reaching the finish line.  Your moans are growing needier, breathier—you know that when he does bring you to the top it’ll be earth-shattering—but your body is ignorant of that logic.

Joel, on the other hand, is wrecked more than you are—tasting you and experiencing you in this way is something he’d never imagined would undo him to this degree.  He wants you, but wants to make you come even more, so in the meantime, he grinds his hips into the mattress for some slight relief.  Hearing your sobs of pleasure and watching you melt in his mouth is something he’ll never forget.  But there’s another feeling lingering behind that desire, slowly curling its fingers around it and sinking its teeth in, threatening to rip it apart and consume him.  He knows it’s too soon to tell you, but also that he is at the mercy of his feelings—completely unable to stop its blaze.

Joel takes two fingers and curls them into you, and you know this is the home stretch—you won’t last long once he starts pumping them into you.  When you think you can’t handle it anymore, the coil finally snaps, white-hot and lightning-fast—you’re borderline screaming, fingers bruising his scalp.  He fucks you through it, fingers slowing but not stopping until your muscles relax slightly.  He groans as he drinks you in, though still needs more of you.  You paw at his shoulders, beckoning him to come up, and he obeys.  His lips latch onto yours hungrily, and he lines himself up at your entrance.  You stop him with one hand on his wrist, and he immediately pulls back from your lips—eyes wide and panicked.

“Sweetheart, everything okay?” he asks, concerned that he did too much, too fast.

“Let me,” you say with a smirk, pushing him on his back.  A grin creeps across his face, eyes turning obsidian again at the prospect of you riding him.  You climb onto him and bend down to kiss him softly, pulling back when he attempts to deepen the kiss.  You flick your tongue over his lips teasingly and sit back up.  Rocking your hips over his, your folds drag over his needy cock.  Payback from the teasing earlier, he realizes.  He whines, gripping your hipbones and guiding you back and forth over his length.  “C’mon baby, need you—fuck,” he moans.  Your smirk returns, wider this time.

“You need to be more specific, Joel,” you say in a low, sultry voice.  His eyes are blacker than ever, your assertiveness and control in this moment increasing his appetite for you.  You’re a vixen.  He’s fully wrapped around your finger, unable to deny your request. He wonders how and when he got here–he’s in so deep, willing to sacrifice just about anything to be with you, in you. This is not the Joel Miller he recognizes, but it’s a change he likes.

“You, darlin’—I want you,” he begs, fingers still glued to your hips.  You scoot down and perch yourself in between his knees, crouching and looking up at him through hooded eyes.  You kiss down his chest and stomach, admiring how strong yet soft he is.  He tastes good—like sandalwood and musk.  Realizing what you’re about to do, his head tips back and eyes clamp shut, allowing him to feel your lips caressing his torso.  You take his cock in your hand and feel him hiss at the touch of your warm fingers.

“Baby—ah, p-please,” he whines.  You blow softly on the tip, eyes never leaving his.  Your confidence astounds even you in this moment—you’ve got Joel on a string.

“Please what, baby?” you coo, giving him a taste of his own medicine.  He’s fucked.  Seeing your pouty lips inches from the head of his weeping cock, your magnetizing eyes planted on his has him aching.

“Want your mouth wrapped around my cock, sweetheart,” he chuffs, eyes blazed with want.  The curls around his forehead are damp and sweaty, lips parted, chest heaving and dotted with sweat droplets—he looks fucking good when he needs you like this.

“Only ‘cause you asked so nicely,” you tease, leaning down to kiss his tip.  He moans and reaches out to smooth your hair back, fingers splayed around the crown of your head.  You return the favor and lick a slow, flat stripe up the underside of his cock, feeling it twitch as your tongue travels over the bump of his head.  He hisses again.  Looking into his eyes, you swirl your tongue around the tip and take it into your mouth with a moan, eyebrows peaked in delight at the taste of him.  He tastes a little salty and a little like you, given the fact that he didn’t shower after fucking you last night.  One of his hands is holding your hair and the other is gripping your wrist firmly.

“Mmm, baby girl—is everything about you perfect?  Body, face, pussy, mouth—fuck,” he curses as you interrupt him by taking half of his length in your mouth.  It’s a stretch – your lips are tight and dry.  You bob up and down a few times before pulling off him with a loud pop, needing more moisture.  While maintaining eye contact, you sit up slightly and spit slowly on the head of his cock, smiling when you feel the leftover string pull on your lower lip.  He groans at the sight and wishes you’d let him take a picture.  You take him back in your mouth and reach down further, the head of his cock grazing your uvula.  You stifle a gag and take a deep breath, tears fizzing at your eyelids.

“Good fuckin’ girl, takin’ most of me,” he praises you, voice laced with lust.  His voice alone is enough to make your pussy seep with slick.  Still feeling confident and aroused by his vulnerability, you take him as far as you can in your throat, feeling the hand on your wrist tighten and a whimper release from his throat as the tip of his dick punches your esophagus.  Fuck, you could hear that sound forever.  You continue sucking his length at a slow but steady pace, tears rolling down your cheeks and into your full mouth, and revel in his deep moans and pants.  You feel his stomach twitch and he frees your mouth from his shaft with a groan.

“Need to fuck you,” he says, voice throaty.  He grabs your jaw and pulls you up to crash his lips onto yours.  It’s messy, both of you panting into each other’s mouths.  You settle above his hips.  His hands grip your hip bones and pull you down, your folds once again kissing his rigid cock.  You grind over him a few times before he can’t take it anymore.

“Fuck me, please,” he begs.  Can’t deny him when he’s looking at you like you’re the answer to everything.

You lean forward and take him in your hand.  You line him up to your entrance and slowly, slowly sink down.  Though you’re dripping, the soreness from last night sears as he gives you inch by inch.  You suck in a breath through your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut, eyebrows clenched together, hands palming his chest for support.  He takes heed of your expression and reaches up to cup your face.  “Y’alright, sweetheart?  We can stop if y’need to,” he soothes.  You shake your head.  “Just sore, and you’re big—need to keep moving.”  You grind your hips down onto him, his hands moving back to clutch your ass cheeks and guide your movements.  He moans as you set a pace—hard, but not too fast.

“Fuck, baby—so goddamn tight, y’look so fuckin’ good like this,” he spits, eyes trying not to clamp shut from the pleasure.  He’ll pinch himself if it means he can continue watching you bounce on him.  He grabs your hips in a bruising grip and thrusts himself up into you, spearing you.  Immediately, you curse and lean over him, palms braced on the wall in front of you, the pleasure almost too much.  Each smack of his skin on yours echoes throughout his large room, accompanied by mutual moans and groans—your second orgasm is so close, and finally—with one last thrust, the coil in your belly snaps again.  You collapse onto him with a loud cry of his name and throw your arms around his neck as he pumps into you a few more times, emptying his spend inside you with a loud moan.  He caresses your sweaty back and licks your earlobe, murmuring sweet praises in your ear.  You kiss his sweaty neck and move your lips up until you meet his panting mouth.

“My god, sweetheart— ‘M gettin’ old, you got me feeling like a two-pump chump,” he huffs.  You burst out in laughter, sweet music to his ears.  “Still managed to make me come twice, though—that’s never happened to me before,” you say, pressing a light kiss to his neck.  You sit up, his cock still nestled inside you, pulling a hiss from him.  You roll off him slowly, his half-hard cock slapping his stomach as it recoils.

“Can I shower?” you ask, tiptoeing over to the bathroom and turning back to look at him over your shoulder.  He groans at the sight of you, skin flushed and stippled in beads of sweat, hair fucked up, ass poking out as you cock your hip toward him.  He’s utterly fucked. 

“Only if I can join you,” he says, sitting up with a grunt and following you, cock growing hard again as he watches you saunter into the walk-in shower in front of him.  Guess he’s not getting that old.

Tuesday, October 19th | 1002

After Joel lathered you up and had his way with you in the shower, he offered to make breakfast.  You happily obliged, but only if he allowed you to wear one of his shirts—an offer he couldn’t possibly refuse.  You decided on a ratty, washed gray Miller Contracting shirt, complete with rips in the armpits and back.  You threw on some clean panties that you stashed in your purse and stole some of Joel’s black sweatpants.  Stepping out of Joel’s room, the scents of smoked bacon and fresh coffee grounds wafted into your nostrils immediately as you made your way to the kitchen.  Joel was posted up at the stove, shirtless, his sweatpants slung low on his hips.  His back muscles flexed and twitched as he switched between cracking eggs into one frying pan and turning popping bacon over in the other.  You admire him wordlessly from the island counter, and he feels your piercing stare.  He turns around, spatula in hand, teeth flashed in a dazzling smile as he takes you in—wet hair, wearing his clothes and smelling like his amber and sandalwood body wash.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes flicking between yours and your chest, covered in his baggy shirt.  You raise an eyebrow at him inquisitively.  “Y’smell like me and wear my shit better than I do,” he admits, turning back to finish breakfast.  You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his strong midsection, taking in the scent of his freshly-washed hair—surprisingly, he had some spare women’s shampoo in his bathroom for you—presumably Sarah’s.  His hair smelled of eucalyptus and mint, a refreshingly clean combo.  You kiss the back of his neck before pulling away to search for the coffee mugs.

“Above the coffee maker,” he says, pointing his greasy spatula toward a cabinet next to the fridge.  It’s ironic, really, but not surprising that Joel’s coffee maker is likely the oldest thing in his house—the diner-style coffee pot stained from years of use, the water level lines on the tank completely faded away, machine sputtering steam aggressively as coffee drips into the pot.  It makes you smile.  The man has a classic old soul but has adapted his lifestyle to fit with the times—except for his coffee maker.  You grab two gray, ceramic mugs from the cupboard, noting they’re the same color as the walls of his room.  He is a dark neutrals guy, for sure—simple, yet bold.  Colors that exude quiet confidence and minimalism—clearly symbolic of the owner of the house.  You pour coffee in the mugs and set them on the island counter with a clink.  He’s plating your food, sneaking a piece of crisp bacon into his mouth as he looks up and points at the fridge.

“Got what ya need in there, darlin’,” he garbles, mouth full of food.  Slightly confused, you swing open the giant fridge doors to see a large carton of half and half on the top shelf.  Your cheeks warm and curl into a smile.  He remembered.  You grab it and turn to him, cradling it affectionately as you walk up to him.  “Thank you, Joel,” you muse.  He laughs at you holding the carton of half and half like a baby.

“No fancy frother though, I’ll have to look around for one,” he says stubbornly, left side of his mouth twitched up in a half-smile.  You giggle and shake the carton.  “Does the trick,” you say as you pour a generous amount into your mug, watching the thick white waves billow before melting into soft beige.

You discover Joel is a great breakfast cook.  The bacon is the perfect ratio of crispy and soft, edges charred slightly.  The eggs were the best part, though—yolks runny, whites full-bodied and crisp around the edges.  You eat in a comfortable silence, and it’s blissful—domestic, almost.

“What’re ya doin’ the rest of the day, sweetheart?” he asks, the hand not shoveling eggs into his mouth reaching over to clasp over yours.  You shrug.  Your apartment is clean, fridge full of groceries—not much on your to-do list.  “Nothing planned,” you say, turning your hand over to lace your fingers with his.  “You?”

“Spending it with you, hopefully.  When do ya need me to take you home?” he asks, a twinkle glimmering in his eyes as he watches you.  “Whenever you’re tired of me,” you say with a sly smile, knowing his response will be.  “So… never,” he chuckles, squeezing your hand.

“Seriously, though, Joel.  If you’ve got stuff to do, feel free to get rid of me at any time… I know you’re busy,” you assure him, not wanting to impede on his time too much.  Your relationship is still in its infancy, and you don’t want to overstay your welcome.  He looks like you just slapped him across the face.

“Darlin’, I’d never do that to ya,” he says, eyes full of affection.  “We can just relax, do whatever you want.  That sound okay?”  he asks.  You beam at him and nod, flattered that he just wants to be in your presence.  You suddenly remember your mom’s text from yesterday and realize you haven’t checked your phone in 12 hours, at least.  He notices the shift in your demeanor.  “Everything okay?” he asks, hand still holding yours.

“Yeah, I just forgot for a moment that I had a phone,” you say with a chuckle.  “My mom texted me yesterday asking to call her, and Keri’s probably worried that I’m dead.”  He smirks.  “S’on the counter, next to mine.  I plugged ‘em in when we got in last night,” he points over to the entrance of the kitchen, near the laundry room.  You walk over and tap the screen.  2 message notifications pop up.

Mom: Don’t forget to call me.  Just have a few things I need to discuss with you.

Keri: How was your date?  FYI, I’m checking your location so I know you’re alive LOL

You grin at Keri’s message and walk back over to the kitchen table as you type a response. 

You: Fucking fantastic.  Can’t wait to tell you all about it tomorrow!! 😉

Sighing, you give Joel a kiss on the cheek as you stuff your phone in your pocket.  He pulls you into his lap and you loop your arms around his neck, head leaning against his.  “My mom texted me again, I should call her,” you say.  He turns and presses a gentle kiss to your temple.  “I’ll clean up in here while ya do,” he murmurs into your ear.  You turn your head and give him a chaste kiss on the lips, nodding.  He gets up from the chair, still holding you as he does, and sets you down gently.  You stay close, entranced by his warmth and the look in his eyes.  He gives your ass a quick squeeze and moves to collect the dishes.

You decide to step out onto the deck via the door in his living room and close your eyes briefly as you feel the anxiety creeping in.  Speaking with your mother is never enjoyable, never leads to a positive outcome.  She complains about someone or something in her life, scolds you for something, anything—then gripes about how you never talk to her or visit her.  You click on her contact and press the phone icon, putting the phone on speaker as you sit on one of Joel’s plush, wide deck chairs.  His backyard is gorgeous, a covered pool carved perfectly in the middle and mature trees lining the rear fence.  The yard is perfectly trimmed and there’s a greenhouse in one of the corners.  Beautiful view for a shitty phone call.  The phone rings twice before your mother answers.

“Finally, was wondering what you were doing,” she says, tone snarky.  You feel anger boil in your stomach, the bubbles floating up to your throat.  No hello, hi, how are you—she’s already starting with the fucking complaining.

“I have a job and a life, that’s what I’ve been doing,” you fire back.  “I’m not at your beck and call 24/7, unfortunately,” you add with mock disappointment.  The phone call is 10 seconds in, and you already want to hang up.  She huffs on the other end.

“Sorry, I’ve just been worried.  I saw your grandma the other night, and she isn’t doing well,” she says, tone softening.  Your anger dies down.  Her mother, your favorite grandmother, is in her late 80s and lives in western Nebraska on an old farmhouse.  She was a teacher, just like your mom, and your grandfather was a dairy farmer until he passed several years ago.

“What’s going on with her?”  you ask, now concerned.

“She’s not remembering much—I spoke with her neurologist, and she’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.  He suggested we visit her before it gets too bad,” she says, voice trembling a bit.  You don’t often hear or see your mother shaken up.  This is serious.  You knew your grandma was less present mentally, as a lot of older people are as they reach 90 years of age but didn’t realize it had progressed so quickly.

“How much time?” Your voice is calm now, hoping it carries over to your nerves.

“Six to twelve months, maybe—your aunt is living with her in the meantime.  I just wanted to make sure you were aware so you could arrange something,” she says, voice returning to its usual stern, monotonous pitch.

“Thanks,” you say blankly.  That moment of vulnerability she shared with you was there and gone in a blink.

“If you do see her, feel free to stop by here,” she adds, the end of her sentence higher pitched, almost as though she’s asking a question.

“Alright.  I’ll let you know,” you say.  You will, either way.

“Bye, honey,” she says before hanging up.  She never calls you that.  The term of endearment settles in your stomach and fizzes slowly, leaving a heavy tug in its absence.  You’re not sure if you should be worried, glad, or both.  You set the phone down and take a deep breath, closing your eyes and clasping your hands behind your head as you lean back.  The patio door slides open quietly, and you hear footsteps approach you on the deck.  Joel sits next to you and puts a reassuring hand on your thigh.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, his velvety voice quiet, the syllables slipping through your eardrums and calming your nerves.  You open your eyes, still looking above.

“My grandma isn’t doing too well.  Memory is slipping— looks like it’s Alzheimer’s.  Gotta take some time and go see her,” you say, turning to gaze at him.  He looks somber, afflicted—like he’s a sponge, soaking up your emotions.  He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you flush to him.  You lean into him, letting him be your crutch for the moment.  He kisses the top of your head.

“Whatever you need, baby, just say the word,” he reassures you.  You’d feel comfortable taking him out to the Nebraska panhandle with you—seems like his cup of tea, anyway.  He’s more of a rural, small town phile than you are.  Fuck it, you think.  “Want to take a road trip with me to western Nebraska?  We can stay in a cute farmhouse,” you ask, the tone of your voice betraying your attempt to hide your apprehension.  It’s not that you think he’d decline, it’s that you think it might be too much, too fast.

“Of course I would, darlin’… been a long time since I had a good vacation.  Need to take the Bimmer out for a road trip, anyway,” he says, lifting your chin up to kiss you.  Relief washes over you.  The thought of spending a week on the road and in a cabin with Joel makes you shiver—in a good way, of course.

“C’mon, let’s go do something,” he offers, offering you his hand as he stands from the chair.  You take it, the warmth comforting you.

Tuesday, October 19th | 1813

The rest of your day with Joel was a blur.  You walked around Village Pointe outdoor mall and enjoyed lunch at a quaint café.  The weather was perfect—no clouds in sight, no gusts of wind threatening to tangle your hair in knots.  Joel held your hand as you strolled in and out of shops, never wanting to be far from your presence. He watched as you stopped to examine some flowers outside a boutique, rubbing the soft petals in between your fingers and trying to memorize the shape of the leaves.  His breath caught in his throat, and he’d felt like he intruded on your private moment with nature.  You admired life in a way nobody else did. It did something to him–and you noticed him staring when you turned back to him. “You’re just so beautiful, inside and out–I can’t get over it.” You felt warmth creep up your neck and stared back at him, unable to speak–he’s got his own magical charm, and it’s got you hooked, too.

The afternoon certainly redeemed the somber remnants from your phone call earlier that morning.  Joel dropped you off at your apartment reluctantly, and not until after he’d meshed his lips and tongue with yours for a while.  “When can I see you again?” he’d said, stroking your cheek with his thumb.  “Whenever you want, cowboy,” you’d replied with a sly smirk.  He said it wouldn’t be more than a few days—that he had a busy Wednesday and Thursday with clients, but that the rest of the week would be smooth sailing.

You remembered that you didn’t have a lot of clean sets of scrubs, so you started some loads of laundry and meal prepped for the rest of the week.  Sitting on the couch, you turn on The Golden Girls and relax, reminiscing about your last couple days with Joel.  Obviously, he cared about you and was quite fond of you.  You felt hopeful and confident about where your relationship was headed, even if it was still so new.  You trusted him, which was difficult for you normally—though with Joel, there was no hesitation.  And you couldn’t deny the physical chemistry you had with him—nobody had ever made you feel that good before, nor had anyone ever been so invested in your pleasure, comfort, and safety.  Was it too good to be true?  You silence the skeptical voice in your head and get up from the couch, ready to hit the hay.

As you get comfortable in your bed, you check your phone to make sure you have an alarm set for tomorrow.  You see a couple of texts from Joel.

Joel: I had an amazing time this weekend.  Can’t wait to see you again.

Joel: Sweet dreams, darlin.

You: I did too.  That day can’t come soon enough.  Maybe Thursday after work?

Joel: Sounds like a plan.  Gnight sweetheart.

You: Night Joel :*

Grinning ear to ear, you put your phone down and let sleep take over you, dreams of Joel—his lips, voice, body—prancing through your mind.

Taglist: @burntheedges, @syd-djarin, @anoverwhelmingdin <3

FYI – this work contains criticisms of religion and reader is atheist/agnostic.  Feel free to scroll if this offends you.  If you decide to read, remember that even if you are religious, this is not an attack on you, but rather ideology.  And remember the tenets of religious freedom.  Everyone has the right to believe – and NOT to believe – in the things you do.

Plasma Center UrbanDict:

Stick = venipuncture

PR = permanent rejection, aka permanent deferral

Reception = where donors have vitals taken to determine if they are suitable to donate

Donor Floor = where the magic happens, baby! Where donation occurs, aka sticks with big 17G needles

 Processing = where units of plasma are sampled and frozen

This is my first ever fic! Excited to share all of it with you. I'm new to posting this kind of stuff on Tumblr, so please forgive rookie formatting and whatnot. Hope you enjoy! As of 03/10/24, I have 6 chapters written - I'm juggling my writing with finishing my MPH degree, so my schedule might be a little spotty until mid-May.

Chapter 1

Chapter warnings: blood, needles, & plasma talk, light violence.

WC: 3.7k

Friday, October 15th | 0755

You turn into the parking lot at the plasma center, a little later than your usual 10 minutes early.  Your shift is at 8, so you don’t have much time to walk to the center, clock in, grab your coat and face shield and get to work.  Thankfully, the parking lot is just across the street.  As soon as you step out of your car, downtown Omaha greets you with the familiar scents of cigarette smoke and fall air, along with the sounds of the city buses and commuters chugging along.

It’s a nice morning.  Living in Nebraska means you get to experience the peaks and valleys of all four seasons, and during fall, this means the leaves of what few trees are in the downtown area are painted lovely hues of orange, yellow, and even red – if you’re lucky enough to find a scarlet or pin oak tree.

The plasma center parking lot is shared with employees and donors, and it’s packed this morning.  Not a great sign.  You walk up to the back employee entrance and punch in the code.  The keypad beeps and lights up green and you pull open the ages-old, heavy-as-hell door and make your way to the break room.

The donor waiting area is just outside the break room door, and you can tell by how full it is that it’s going to be a long day, confirming your earlier suspicions in the parking lot.  Somebody definitely called in, you think.  Great.  Punching in the same code as before, you enter the break room, throw your stuff in your locker, and clock in.

As soon as you’re on the Donor Floor, donned with your white lab coat, blue nitrile gloves, and face shield, one of your best phlebotomists and good friend Keri approaches, looking flustered as hell.

“Jesus, thank fuck you’re here,” she sighs, taking a deep breath and raising her eyebrows at you.  She smooths back her frizzy hair and sets down her face shield on the counter next to you.

“Are we short today, or did corporate send out some bonus texts to half of Omaha?” you say, checking the Donor Queue on the computer.  15 people waiting, average wait time of 43 minutes.  Fucking clean up time, I guess.

“Two call-outs, but they’re newbies, so it wouldn’t have mattered, really,” she says.  “Definite yes on the bonus texts.  Regulars are all pissed off because they didn’t get any.”  You roll your eyes and sigh.  To get more donors in, the company you work for has been sending bonus texts to donors that haven’t been in in a while, which really ticks off the regular, twice-a-week donors.  It’s all about meeting that liters budget.

“Where do you need me?  Breaks need to be sent?” you ask her.  You’re the lead phlebotomist, but you always check in with whoever opened before you make any decisions.  Keri nods.  “Send Blake to break, he’s got an open section now and we’ve got to get these wait times down.”  You grab your mobile phlebotomy device and head that way.

Each phlebotomist can have a maximum of 6 donors in their section.  You see Blake cleaning up the machine from his last disconnect, leaving you an empty section.  “You can head to break, I’ll take over here,” you say, helping him wipe down the now-empty donor bed.

“Thanks… really happy that you’re here.  It’s been a shit show today,” he says, walking away from the section toward the break room.  You groan and head up to the front near the waiting area, grab a chart, and start climbing the mountain.

Thursday, October 15th | 1230

The morning turned out to be an absolute disaster.  You quickly filled up your section once you sent Blake to break, apologizing to every donor you sat for the wait times.  Most were understanding.  There were a few that gave you an eye roll or a shrug.  A few left the center, not wanting to be late for work.  The fall is generally a busy time at the center, with people seeking extra money for football tailgates and games, college students needing extra money for just about everything, and parents stocking up early on holiday savings.

Thankfully, Keri, you, and the rest of the morning Donor Floor crew knocked the Queue down to 3 donors and wait times down to 10 minutes.  Once the last morning break was done, they came over and sent you to your lunch.  Delighted, you took off your sweaty coat and hung it up, washed your hands at the sink by the coat rack, and headed to the break room.

Before you’re able to punch in the door code, a deep, velvety voice stops you.

“Uh, miss?  Can you point me in the right direction?”

You turn and look in the direction of the voice and see a taller man with dark, silvery-streaked curly hair, tanned skin and pensive brown eyes staring at you.  He’s donning a red flannel that squeezes his broad shoulders and ropy arm muscles, and dark wash Levi’s that have the outline of his wallet imprinted in the front right pocket.  He’s definitely a blue-collar guy, not unlike a lot of the current donors.  Must be a new donor, you think.  Damn, he looks good.  You feel a little zap in your chest, not unlike the fingerstick donors get during screening.

“Hi!  Are you a new donor?”  You ask, turning on your customer service voice in hopes of calming your nerves.  You step back from the door and walk toward him.  He’s got a small white paper slip in hand, which tells you he needs his veins checked, so he must be new.

“Yes ma’am, need someone ‘ta look at my veins.  Been here before, but it’s been a long time,” he says, watching you approach him and giving you the once-over.  Twice-over.  Your pulse quickens.  His voice is like icing, dripping with a sweet Southern accent and mushing your insides.  You smile and take the paper from him, hoping that you aren’t blushing.

“Roll up your sleeves for me and let’s take a look,” you say, watching him roll up the sleeves of his red flannel.  He’s got thick, veiny forearms that are tanned and covered with freckles.  He wears a watch on his left wrist that you assume hasn’t been removed in years, judging by the pure white skin peeking underneath.  His hands are big and scarred.  Definitely works with his hands, you think.  He has a small, circle-shaped scar on his right arm near the venipuncture site, so he was telling the truth about donating plasma before.  You grab a tourniquet hanging on the cabinet near the chart area, wrap it on his upper arm, and feel.  His veins are huge and muscular, and you realize you didn’t need the tourniquet in the first place.  Rookie mistake.

“Guess I really don’t need this,” you say, removing the tourniquet and feeling his ropy veins with your index finger.  His skin is warm under your clammy finger.  He chuckles.  “Heard that one before,” he says.  You laugh and make eye contact with him, noticing the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and his salt and pepper beard.  His gaze is amiable and filled with something else you can’t quite pinpoint, and your stomach twists.  You look away before you can decipher it.

“I don’t think you’ll have any issues with the stick,” you say, and he laughs.  “Are you hydrated?  Had a good meal in the last hour or two?” You ask, writing your name on the vein check slip and circling “Pass.”  You see the name Joel Miller written at the top.

“Yes ma’am, I do a lot of workin’ outside and with my hands, so I know better,” he says, confirming your earlier assumption.  His voice is sending a wave of tingles from your ears to your neck, and you feel goosebumps start to erupt in their pathway.

“Good man, Joel,” you say, noticing him perk up at you saying his name, “Take this back to the front desk and we’ll get you processed as quickly as we can.”  He nods, gives you a handsome-as-fuck lopsided smile, and walks back to the front.  You head back to the break room and turn to glance at him once more to find that he's already looking at you.  Fuck, you think, looking back at the door.  Don’t need a hot donor making me feel nervous like this.  He’s older than you, but he might be the most handsome guy you’ve ever seen.  You can only imagine how homely you look, clad in your scrubs and sweaty from the morning hustle and bustle.

You see every part of humanity at your job: young and old, foreign and domestic, all races and ethnicities, handsome and near homeless.  There have been a few men that have caught your eye, and a few that you’ve met up with outside of the center, but none like this one.  As tedious and mundane as the job can be, it’s the people that make it exciting, especially attractive ones.  Well, hopefully he passes screening so I can see him on the Donor Floor, you think, contemplating what you’re going to get for lunch in the short time that you have.

Thursday, October 15th | 1430

Your break went by too fast.  You decided on some fast-food place just across the street from the center.  It’s good and cheap, but you know the greasy food is going to put you in a late-afternoon lull.  Oh well.  After you got back, the lobby was still relatively empty, so you started working on doing the monthly machine cleanings in the meantime.

The plasmapheresis machines are complicated and like everything else in the plasma center, they come with lots of rules and regulations.  You’re a seasoned pro, though, so the cleaning and documentation are a breeze.  You’re heading over to clean the last of the machines in the third row of the Donor Floor when you see a familiar, handsome head of dark salt-and-pepper curls walk behind Keri to one of the donor beds in the first row.  He smiles at you as he lies on the donor bed, and you feel your cheeks heat and curl up into a smile of their own.  Get a fucking grip.  You’re relieved that Keri is taking care of him, because you’re nervous just seeing him in your work area.  You can only imagine how shaky your hands would be with a needle if you were the one sticking him.

While cleaning the machines in the third row, you periodically look over at Joel and Keri.  Keri is great with the donors, and it’s evident when you see Joel laughing with her.  Each time you look up, he’s either already looking at you or looks up right after you do.  You try to play it off like you’re scanning over all the donors, making sure everything is going as it should, but the sweat sheen forming on your face and neck betray you.

You see the light on his machine turn green, indicating he’s been stuck and is running smoothly.  You imagine what it would’ve been like to feel his veins again, feeling his warm, tan skin underneath your fingers… and underneath other things, like—

“Oh my god, that man is such a charmer… and asked about you at least three times,” Keri states, snapping you out of your horny daydream.  Your eyes widen and you turn so he can’t see your face from where he’s seated.

“Shhh!  Keep your voice down!”  You hiss, making both of you giggle.  “What was he saying?”

“Oh, nothing much, just asking what the cute girl that checked his veins was doing all the way over here,” she smirks.  “He used to donate here over 25 years ago when the center first opened up.  Can you believe he’s that old?  He does NOT look like it.”  Odd, you think.  He didn’t sound like he was from here when you spoke to him earlier.  Wait, did he say I was cute?  Blushing at his remark about your appearance, you remember the scar on his arm and think he’s probably telling the truth.  “Wow, he looks good.  How old is he?”  Keri pulls him up on her mobile phlebotomy handheld and you see he was born in 1975.  Damn.  20 years older than you.

Before you and Keri can gush further about Joel, the front door slams shut, echoing throughout the center and catching everyone off-guard.  You watch as one of the younger regular donors, Cedric, storms past Reception and the donor waiting area over to the Donor Floor front desk, near where you checked Joel’s veins earlier.  He practically spits your name, his brows pinched in a rage.

“Cedric, is everything alright?”  You ask, approaching the front desk slowly.  The once-noisy Donor Floor is quiet, save for the quiet whirring and clicking of the machines.  Donors not wearing headphones are anxiously watching the front desk.  You give Cedric the once-over and notice that his arm wrap is soaked with blood, and some of it has gotten on his white shirt and shorts and the floor around him.  First rule of donating: Never wear white to a plasma center, dude.

“Does it fucking look alright?  My arm wasn’t wrapped right and now I have blood everywhere!”  he fumes.  The entire Donor Floor is watching, including Joel and poor Blake, who must’ve disconnected Cedric.  Blake approaches tentatively, tail between his legs, but you put your hand up to him, saying I’ll take care of this.  Blake gives you a thankful nod and tiptoes back to his section.

“Cedric, I’m sorry about that.  Come over to the sink and I’ll rewrap it for you,” you say, putting a fresh pair of gloves on.  “Keri, can you clean up the blood spots with bleach, please?”  You ask.  She nods and grabs a Clorox bottle near the front desk, putting her face shield on and quickly walking around Cedric to search for the path of blood droplets.  Cedric raises his voice again.

“Not good enough.  I need that kid fired for his incompetence!” he points aggressively at Blake, flinging some blood droplets on the arm of your coat and on the front desk.

“Everybody makes mistakes, Cedric.  Blake is a great employee.  We can fix this.  Let’s get you cleaned up, and maybe we can compensate you a little extra on your next donation,” you offer.  But Cedric isn’t having it.  He rips off the arm wrap and gauze and throws them at you while screaming expletives.  The bloodied wrap nearly hits your face shield.  Oh, hell no.  He’s a long-term donor, so he’s probably clean, but it’s too close for comfort.

“Blake, call Trina and call the cops.  Get this guy out of here.  Cedric, don’t ever come back to this place,” you calmly instruct, walking backwards to find a biohazard container a safe distance from Cedric, never turning away from him.  Trina, your manager, doesn’t put up with this kind of stuff and will make sure he’s permanently deferred.

“Fuck you, bitch!”  Cedric yells, sprinting out of the center with two fingers on his free hand holding his venipuncture site, some blood dripping underneath.  Once the front door slams shut, you turn around and take off all your PPE and toss it in the biohazard container, saving your nametag and pen.  Frustrated and tired, you walk to the sink to wash your hands.  Keri and Trina approach you.

“You alright, hon?” Trina asks.  She’s a good manager, always looking out for her employees.  She used to work on the Donor Floor, so she’s no stranger to these kinds of mishaps.  Tensions can be hefty in this area – some donors are desperate for money, some fear needles more than death itself, and some are just grumps.  Phlebotomists usually get the brunt of it.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just need to cool off.  I told Blake to call the cops.”  She nods.

“Go ahead.  When the police get here, they’ll want your statement, so I’ll come find you then… I’ll put in the PR now,” she says, giving your arm a supportive squeeze before walking back toward the offices.  You give her a pained smile and look to Keri, equally concerned as Trina.  “Take your afternoon break, love.  I’ll handle everything else,” she says.  “Thanks, Ker.  I’m gonna step in the freezer to cool off and then I’ll go.”  She nods.  You head toward Processing, located at the opposite end of the center.  Processing has two giant walk-in freezers that always maintain temps of -40ºC – great for keeping fresh plasma frozen solid and an instant cool down.

You step in one of the freezers, shutting the heavy door behind you.  You walk over to the fans and stand underneath.  The sweat on your neck and back quickly freezes in its downward track, leaving behind a sting that could soon turn to frostbite.  It doesn’t take long to cool off here, and anybody staying in for longer than a minute is supposed to put on a heavy coat, gloves, and a ski mask.  It’s a popular spot for blistering summer days and after heated interactions like this.  Satisfied with the pink blooming on your fingers and the crunch of your frozen, sweaty hair, you step out of the freezer and make your way outside for your break.

Once at the picnic table at the outdoor employee break area, you do a quick scan for Cedric.  You can see the trails of blood drops leading to and from his car, and an empty space where his car must’ve been parked.  Heaving a sigh of relief, you plop down at the table and massage your temples.  Fuck… glad this day is almost over.

“Sweetheart, you alright?” A soothing, Southern voice rings in your ear and you look up, seeing Joel approach from his truck.  He says your name, surprising you.  Keri must’ve told him it while she was going through the process with him.

You take this moment to return the once-over he gave you earlier.  Twice-over.  His sleeves are still rolled up and you can see his arm wrap.  His jeans crinkle at the hip with each step, his strong, toned quads flexing as each foot contacts the pavement.  You can only imagine what he looks like from behind.  His cowboy boots are worn, the leather cracking around the toes.  He’s probably the type to wear a pair until they crumble to bits.  He walks with a quiet bravado, taking long, smooth strides until he reaches you at the table.

You’ve no doubt you look exhausted.  Though your sweat has frozen, you can feel how frizzy your hair is, especially around your face.  Your eyes sting with fatigue and the skin underneath your eyelids tug downward.  Your throat feels dry and tight, like you might cry soon.  He must notice because the look in his eyes morphs from concern to anger.

“Hi, Joel,” you state, forcing a smile.  “I’m okay.  Not my first rodeo,” you wink, giving him a sarcastic “yee-haw” motion.  He laughs, but his eyes betray him, still showing anger.

“Mind if I sit?” He motions to the spot across from you.

“No, go ahead, but the cops are on their way and who knows if Cedric will be back,” you caution him.  He waves you off.

“That fuckin’ kid don’t scare me, and I saw everythin’ anyway.  I can talk to the cops if you ain’t comfortable,” he says.  He puts his hands on the backs of yours, and you feel another zap in your chest like you did when you first saw him earlier.  You notice now that he doesn’t have a wedding ring.

“Thanks, but you don’t have to.  I’m well versed in this department,” you say, feeling the tears reaching their boiling point.  You do everything you can to keep them in, but one betrays you and falls down your cheek.  Angry that you’re crying in front of Joel, you try to move your hand out from underneath his to wipe the tear, but he beats you to it.

“It’s okay, darlin’.  You did the right thing, stickin’ up for your people,” he soothes, his thumb wiping your tear from your face.  He moves his hand to cup your jaw and swipes his thumb gently over your cheek.  His angry eyes softened back to concerned.

For what feels like an eternity, the two of you stare at each other, exchanging more communication nonverbally than words could ever.  He’s looking at each of your eyes back and forth, and you feel yourself start to get embarrassed under his hot stare.  You try to turn your head away from his gaze, but his hand stops you.  “You’re alright, darlin’, got nothin’ to be ashamed of here,” he says, reading your mind.  You bring your hand up from the table to gently grasp his arm as a sign of appreciation.  His gaze follows and he swallows loudly.

“Thank you,” you say, giving him a genuine, close-lipped smile.  His eyes move to your lips and then quickly dart back to your eyes, like you caught him doing something forbidden.  He removes his hands and stands up, walking over to your side.  He offers a hand to help you up and you accept, letting him pull you to your feet.

“Sorry your first visit back here was so crazy,” you say, and he laughs.  “Hopefully next time it’s not so… exciting.”  He moves his hand up to your shoulder and gives it a quick squeeze before dropping it.  A tingle rips up your spine.

“Oh, I’m sure it will be.”  He gives you that same look that he did earlier, the one where you couldn’t quite figure out what it meant.  This time, though, you think you know exactly what it means.  Your stomach somersaults.

“I’ll see you soon, darlin’.  Hopefully your day gets better,” he says, turning to walk toward his truck.  Once he gets to the driver’s side door, he turns to look at you again and pauses.  You stand and stare at him, wanting to say something in return, but too overwhelmed by all your emotions.  He smiles and gets in the truck, starting it and driving off while watching you with a small wave.  You smile as he leaves.

Fuck.

Confused is the best way to describe how you feel right now.  That, and exhausted; like you’d worked a long day on the Donor Floor with a full rack of charts.  At this point, you’d prefer that over what just happened.

Your ears are ringing from the gunshot.  Your head is pounding, like someone stuck it between two cymbals and slammed them together.  The ringing is getting worse by the minute, turning garbled and ricocheting off the walls of your skull.  Or—is that someone talking?

“Ma’am?  Did you hear me?” An officer asks, crouching to meet your eye level.  You’re seated on the front porch of your grandparents’ farmhouse, dazed.

“Huh?” You ask, squinting up at him.  The puffy, gray clouds from earlier rolled away, leaving blue skies, bright sunshine, and little tufts of cloud dispersed along the horizon.  The irony of it makes you half smirk.

“Something funny?” He questions you, annoyed.  You shake your head and blink several times to reset.

“No, sorry—what did you ask me?”

He sits next to you on the porch and flips to a new page of his small, spiral notebook.  There’s about 8 cop cars parked in the driveway, lights flashing.  As if you needed more bright lights right now.

“Do you know the man that broke into your house?”

You pause and stare off into the vast fields beyond the driveway, retracing your earlier steps.

“JOEL!” You screamed.  Silence.

“Joel, please tell me you’re alright!” Pleading and crying, you bang on the door—as if you can’t open it from the inside.  You hear shuffling, and the doorknob jiggles.  The identity of the person is still a mystery.  You remember Joel’s voice instructing you not to come out unless he said so.  Panic fills your chest quickly, seizing your ribcage and all impending breaths.

“Wait—no,” you whisper, squeezing the doorknob as the unknown person tries to twist it open.

“Baby, it’s me—please open up,” the voice of an angel, one you recognize, calls out.  Relief fills you so quickly that you almost pass out—that, and you forgot to breathe.  You let go of the doorknob and lean your back against the sink as you pant, sweaty fingers gripping the old countertop.

Stars fade in and out of your vision as the door opens and a blurry Joel walks in.  Instantly, he scoops you into his arms and hugs you with an ironlike strength that threatens to crush your bones.

“Urgh,” you spit, words mushing together much like the organs inside your chest.  Joel lets go.

“Sorry, darlin’—are you alright?” Worried amber orbs peer at you, waiting for a response.  You blink.

“I—me?  Joel, you just shot someone, and you’re asking me if I’m, I’m—” you sputter, lips trembling.  He shushes you and pulls you flush to him, wrapping his arms around your back and shoulders and stroking your hair.

“Shhh, baby.  S’okay.  Deep breaths.”

His velvet voice slows your racing pulse, calming you.  Time passes and you hear sirens in the distance.

“Did you call?”

He grunts in affirmation against your temple, kissing it softly before pulling back.

“Yep.  You should stay in here until they get ridda him.”

“Wait… he’s dead?  Who even was he?” Anger starts to fill your insides, threatening to overflow.  You just can’t catch a damn break.  Joel can feel it as your skin heats up and your cheeks turn pink.

“No idea, baby—but I reckon he was tryin’ to rob this place.  Dressed in all black and a ski mask.  He’s good as dead.  I’m leavin’ him for the cops.”

Suddenly, you hear voices from the front of the house.

“Police!  Hands up and call out so we can find you!”

Joel steps out into the bedroom as he lifts his arms, giving you a look that says stay here.

Sounds of heavy boots storm the hallway, stopping at the ajar bedroom door.

“Anyone else here, sir?” The voice is loud, authoritative.

“Yes, sir—my girl’s in the bathroom.  She experienced a traumatic event not too long ago and I didn’t want her to see this.”

The tone of the officer’s voice softens slightly.  “Ma’am—come out with your hands up and announce when you’re entering the room.  Close your eyes if need be.”

You gulp and stick your hands up, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Coming,” you squeak, hoping it’s loud enough for them to hear.  Slowly, you tiptoe into the bedroom.

“Stop right there, ma’am.  I need identification.”

“That’s it… I have no idea who he is.  Was,” you correct, remembering the random guy who broke into your grandparents’ house is now dead.

“Is there anyone who would want to hurt either you or your boyfriend?”

You sigh heavily and tilt your head back, closing your eyes in anguish.  “Um… I was stabbed a few weeks ago at my job.  The cops showed up and there was a showdown.  He tried to lunge at them, and they took care of him, if you catch my drift.”

The officer nods and scribbles what looks like gibberish on the small, ruled paper.  He stops and looks at you, urging you to continue.

“Right,” you say, nodding slowly, “Well, he was a donor at the plasma center I work at in Omaha.  He ended up getting deferred and wanted revenge.  Junkie,” you blabber, unsure why you can’t just get to the point.  The officer raises an eyebrow at you, and you get the sense that he’s unsure, too.

“Other than him, no.  But a couple of days ago I started getting anonymous texts that felt, um… threatening,” you admit.  The officer sits up straight as he studies your face.  The eyebrow that was relaxed is now level with its twin, his expression turning from irritation to a mix of concern and intrigue.

“What makes you say that they’re threatening?”

You unlock your phone and pull up the unknown number’s messages, letting him read.

“Sorry for the language—I was, uh, pissed,” you concede, bashful.

“You have no clue who this is?  Does your boyfriend?”

You shake your head.  “Nope, but they obviously know both of us.  They followed him and took pictures.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need these and those pictures.  Here’s my card—send them to this number.  I’ll have a detective speak with your boyfriend about this once he’s done giving his statement at the station.”  He hands you a small white business card with no name but Chadron Police Department and a phone number.

“Is he being charged with anything?” you ask, rubbing sweaty palms together nervously.  The officer stands up, offering you his arm as you follow him.

“Not at the moment.  From what we’ve gathered, this person was likely a vagrant looking for a place to stay or some petty cash.  He came to the wrong place, intruded, and was rewarded with a single shot to the chest.  Pretty open and shut self-defense case.  I doubt the DA will want to press charges.”

Your throat feels tight and bone dry as you try to swallow.  This is the second time in a month that you’ve witnessed someone die.  You wondered if this was the new norm.  And what would Joel think—that you’re nothing but drama?

“I’m assuming we can’t stay here until everything is… cleaned up,” you say cautiously.  The officer nods.

“Your relatives were notified earlier, and they have made arrangements for both of you and for the cleaning.”  You perk up at this new knowledge.

“How did you know who I—oh.  Right.  Small town,” you say, mustering a small smile.  The officer chuckles.  He looks young and somewhat familiar—you can’t think of who he is now.

“Yes ma’am.  Recognized your last name from your ID.  I know your family… well, all the officers do.  Your aunt is the one I called first, and then your mother.”

Fuck.

“You called my mom?” you groan, gluing your index fingers to your temples.

“Sorry—I know her, too,” he says, laughing in a manner that indicates he’s familiar with the many unpleasantries of your mom.  He continues, “But your aunt insisted.  She is the owner of this house.”

You nod, rolling your eyes underneath your closed eyelids.

“Ma’am—I’m truly sorry this happened to you.  Would you like a ride down to the station?”

“Um… may I drive myself?  No offense, but… I’ve never been in a police car.  And I don’t want to add that experience to my current list.”  He chuckles.

“Yes.  Though an officer will have to retrieve the keys for you, and anything else you may need.  The crime scene isn’t cleared yet.”

“Okay.  The keys are in the kitchen and my bag is there, too.”

Officer Friendly nods and steps under the yellow caution tape to grab your things.  You stare off into the vast farmland before you, feeling another twinge of sadness.  It seems like wherever you go, trouble follows.  You grimace at the thought of what your mother and folks around town will say.  But mostly, you’re worried about Joel.  This can’t be easy for him, cleaning up all your messes.

What if this is the final straw for him?

Icy pangs of anxiety circulate through your vessels, seizing and freezing the muscles along their path.  A nudge snaps you back to reality.

“Ma’am, your belongings.  You can follow me to the station, if you’d like,” Officer Friendly offers, walking you over to the Bimmer.  You nod and force a weak smile, reaching out for Joel’s and your belongings.  The officer opens the driver’s side door for you, and you shakily climb into the plush leather seat.

“Are you sure you can drive, ma’am?” He asks hesitantly, eyeing you with concern.  You can’t look very good right now—tear-stained cheeks, post-sex hair, oily skin that you didn’t have time to wash this morning, disheveled clothes.  You guffaw at the mental image, surprising the officer, who raises an eyebrow at you again.

“I’m sorry—this is such a shit show.  I haven’t been back to Chadron in years, and I can’t even spend one day here without something crazy happening to me,” you say, voice a mixture of incredulous laughter and melancholy.  You finally catch his name on a tag sewn into his shirt—Adams.  He reaches out for your shoulder, lightly grasping the fabric there.  The look in his stormy blue eyes looks like more than just platonic concern for a civilian.

“It’s not your fault, and it probably seems like a lot right now, but we will figure this out.  Focus on your breathing and it’ll be alright.”

He’s right—this home invasion could just be a fluke.  Either way, you had no control over it and needed to focus on what you could control.  Placidity blooms in your chest, slowing your breathing.

“Thank you.  I think I’m ready now,” you say, shifting in the seat and putting the seatbelt on.  He removes his hand from your shoulder and walks to his patrol car, and only now do you realize that he was rubbing your shoulder with his thumb.  Odd.  Something doesn’t feel right here, but you can’t pinpoint it.  Perhaps your state of mind is causing you to misread the situation, though your gut tells you otherwise.

Tucking that thought away, you start the car and the familiar purr of the engine calms you.  With your hands folded in your lap, you close your eyes and inhale deeply.  The smell of Joel invades your nostrils.  You think of him sitting in this seat, his fingers rubbing your skin as he drives on the highway.  Your mind drifts to the events of the drive down here last night, stomach flipping in response.

The officer finally pulls out of the driveway.  Shifting the car to drive, you follow him to the station, the smooth handling and suspension of the car ridding you of the last of your nerves.

Ten minutes later, you pull up to a small, gray block of a building labeled “Chadron Police Department.”  There can’t be more than 10 parking spaces out front, half of which are filled with rusty black and white Crown Victorias.  They don’t look like they’ve been used in a hot minute, and they’re different from the Ford Explorers at the farmhouse.  Chuckling, you whip into a spot and wait for Officer Adams to escort you inside.

He strolls up from the side of the building, where the Explorers have camped out.  His sunglasses cover his blue eyes, though you can tell he’s checking you out as he walks up, the subtle nod of his head giving him away.  The thought sends shivers down your spine, but not like the ones you get when Joel stares at you.

Officer Adams is attractive, yes—tall, toned, ropy biceps and thick quads, cropped blonde hair, and a strong jawline.  You imagine a six-pack hides underneath that black button up shirt.  Had you not been with Joel, you might’ve indulged the possibility of testing that theory, but a nagging voice in the back of your mind tries to redirect you.  Something is not right with him, and it’s irritating you that you can’t decipher what that is.

He flashes a rottenly handsome smile at you and escorts you into the building, nodding at the older, overweight, scowling woman at the front desk.  She reminds you of Roz, the grumpy slug receptionist from Monsters, Inc.  She grunts, lifting a clipboard and scowling at you as you traverse the lobby.  Officer Adams puts a hand up to her.

“I’ll sign her in later—she’s a family friend,” he assures her.  Roz purses her lips and eyes you as she sets the clipboard down on the front desk.  Family friend?  You barely recognize this guy.  You follow him as he flashes a key card up to a locked door, which leads to a corridor filled with more locked doors.  He guides you to the last one on the left.

“Joel is in here.  He is free to go.  Wait here with me while I instruct the officers in here to usher him out,” he says.  You nod, butterflies fluttering in your stomach at the thought of seeing Joel.

Officer Adams pulls the radio from his belt and speaks into it.  A light above the door turns red, accompanied by the sounds of locks shifting inside the door.  Finally, the door opens, with one uniformed officer and a detective exiting first.  Joel emerges last.

He looks exhausted.  The frown lines on his face have deepened, mouth curled into a slight scowl.  Once he sees you, though, his entire expression morphs into quiet joy.  Finally, the sparkle in his amber eyes returns, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he grins at you.  You can’t help but smile back at him.

“Joel!” you yelp, jumping into his arms and wrapping your legs around him.  He squeezes you tightly and kisses your ear, chuckling.

“Little excited, huh?” he croons into your ear.  You giggle as he sets you down, unable to stifle the huge smile plastered on your face.  Momentarily, you forget you’re at a police station—until Officer Adams emits an annoyed grunt.  Both of you let go and turn to face the officers.

“Joel, you’re free to go.  Both of you should stick around town for a while as we gather more information about those texts and pictures you received.  Inform us if they contact you again,” the detective says, handing Joel a business card.  Joel shakes his hand and nods.  Officer Adams escorts everyone out into the lobby, turning back to look at you with a fake smile as he peers into the lobby.

“Um… you have guests here,” he says, wincing as he watches your face contort into a mixture of resignation and disgust.

As soon as you step into the lobby, two familiar figures bum rush you, pulling you into a group bear hug.  Your mom and aunt, who though several years apart, could pass as twins.  You choke out a greeting as they squeeze the last of the air from your lungs.

“C-can’t—breathe—,” you stammer, pulling giggles from the two of them.  They let you go, and your mom holds your face in her hands.  Tears have welled in her usually stern eyes.

“Mom, I’m good,” you assure her.  She lets go with a heavy but relieved sigh.  The familiar everlasting scowl resumes its normal place on her face.  Sensing the impending tension, your aunt grabs both of your hands and leans in close.

“Is this your man? Wow!” She giggles, peeking at Joel.  You smirk and turn around to find him blushing and scratching the back of his neck.  You beckon him closer.

“Joel, meet my mom and my aunt,” you introduce him.  Ever the gentleman, he reaches out to shake their hands, only to be sucked into another hug by your aunt.  Your mom, usually chilly with newcomers, surprises you by also hugging Joel.  When he lets go, he pulls you to his side, arm glued to your waist.

“Well, I’m glad you two are okay,” your aunt says, tone genuine.  “Do you have any idea who it was that broke in?”

Joel and you shake your heads.  “No idea,” you reply, “The police think he was a vagrant looking for some quick cash.”  Your aunt nods.

“Well, don’t worry about it—once it’s cleaned up, you’re good to stay there again.  That is, if you’re willing.  Totally up to you,” she says with a warm smile.  Your mom stiffens imperceptibly next to her, likely at the fact that you and Joel are sleeping in the same bed.

“Thank you, ma’am.  So sorry to bring this kinda burden here,” Joel laments.  Your aunt shakes her head and waves him off.

“Not your fault at all.  I’m just glad you’re both here and you’re in one piece,” she says, picking up your bandaged arm to inspect it.  “Well… sort of,” she adds with a chuckle.  Your mom pipes up.

“How is your arm?  Are you changing dressings like you’re supposed to and taking your medicine?” Her expression is that of a typical mom lecturing her child on following regimen: eyebrows raised, head tilted, small arms crossed over her chest.  You resist the compulsion to roll your eyes into your skull.

“Yes—Joel has been great at making sure I’m good and well,” you say, covering his hand with yours on your waist.  You peer at him to see a familiar blush creeping over his tanned neck.

“Nah, she needs no help from me—smarter ‘n I’ll ever be,” he adds, squeezing your side three times, almost like he’s saying those three little words with his hand.

Your aunt beams at the both of you.  Eager to maintain a happy disposition and sensing a lecture brewing, you avoid your mom’s eyes.  Your aunt breaks your train of thought.

“You two are staying at my house.  I’m taking a quick trip to Chadron for two nights to see some old friends.  We got all your stuff from the farmhouse, and I’ve got it in the car.  Didn’t seem like you two had much time to unpack,” she rambles.  You nod.

“We got in late last night and then had a rude awakening this morning,” you joke.  You’re happy that she’s letting the two of you crash at her place—she has a modern mansion on the outskirts of Chadron, surrounded by rocky buttes.  Makes sense—she took over most of the farming business and her husband, your late uncle, came from a farm family.  Your cousins are all grown now and out of the house, leaving your aunt alone in a giant, six-bedroom house.

“Well, why don’t you two head over there now and make yourselves comfortable.  I’m heading to Crawford.  Want to do dinner with your mom and visit your grandma when I’m back?” She asks, beckoning everyone to leave the stuffy police station reception area.  Roz breathes a sigh of relief at the prospect of everyone leaving.  Joel leans into your ear.

“Boy, she’s quite the stick in the mud,” he whispers, making you giggle.

“Not much different than my mom,” you whisper back, making sure you’re out of your mom’s earshot.  Joel shakes his head before kissing your temple.

Outside, your aunt is parked next to the Bimmer and has the back door of her Cadillac SUV open.  Joel jogs over to unload your bags.

“I’ve got it, ma’am, thank you,” he says, Southern chivalry on full display.  Now that Joel is occupied, you’re left alone with your mother.  She makes the first move.

“You two are welcome to come over any time,” she says with a microscopic hint of hesitation.  You decide to ignore it.

“We will once we get settled.  Do you need any help around the house?” you ask, changing the subject.  She perks up.

“Yes—that darn gate in the backyard needs fixed.  I got some estimates from some local places, but it seems astronomical,” she gripes.

“Joel does this kind of thing for a living, he’ll be happy to take a look,” you add as the two of you watch him make quick work of the bags.  He comes over and raises an eyebrow at you, as if to say Everything good?  You wink at him, squirming at the bashful smile it pulls from him.

“Joel, it was nice to meet you.  Don’t be afraid to keep her in check,” your mom says, with a chuckle.  Again, you fight the urge to drop your jaw.  This is not normal behavior for her, but you’ll take it.  Joel nods.

“Yes, ma’am, though she’s feisty, that one,” he says, grinning at you.  This time, you don’t stifle the urge to roll your eyes.

“Believe me, I know it,” your mom says before pulling you into a hug.  “Come over anytime,” she says, squeezing you tightly.  She lets go of you to hug Joel again before getting in her minivan.

Joel opens the passenger door of the BMW for you, grabbing your arm just before you sit down.  Warm chocolate eyes scan your face.  He cups your face gently and stares at you for a moment before speaking.  His expression almost takes your breath away.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” he asks, thumbs gently swiping over your skin.

“Again… me?  Joel, you shot someone today—you’re asking me if I’m okay?” you gape, incredulous.  He chuckles, still staring deep into your soul.

“Nothin’ else matters unless you’re alright,” he says softly.  “I did what I had to t’keep you safe.  And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”  Fuck.  Your heart jumps, threatening to escape your throat.

“I love you,” you murmur as he leans in to kiss you.  He stops just short of your lips and smiles slowly.

“S’like music to the old ears, baby.  Say it again,” he croons.  You chuckle softly.

“I love you, old man,” you tease.

“Mm.  Not as much as I love you, Sassy,” he says before capturing your lips with his.

Several hours later, after food and a much-needed shower, you find yourself in one of your favorite places—caged in Joel’s strong arms.  You’re both snuggled into your aunt’s giant sectional, underneath one of her ancient quilts—presumably made by your grandma.  Joel is scrolling through the TV channel guide absentmindedly, lips pressed to your temple as he mumbles to himself.

“Pick something already,” you urge him.  “You don’t let me scroll through Netflix for half this long.”  The laugh that leaves his lips is deep and rumbling, tickling the hairs on your ear.

“S’true.  Think it’s your turn to look, then,” he says, handing the giant remote to you.  Now with two free hands, he wraps his arm around your stomach and pulls you flush to him.  His warm lips and stubbly chin nuzzle into your neck, pressing soft kisses on the skin there and leaving tingles in their path.

“Any suggestions?  Sports?  Movie?” you ask as you flip through the channel pages.  He murmurs a deep uh-uh into your neck as he continues to kiss you, nose nudging the skin at the base of your neck and behind your ear.  You’ll have a hard time picking something if this continues.

“Joel—if you don’t wanna watch TV then just say so,” you tease as his lips continue caressing your neck and ear.  He mumbles something unintelligible into your skin.

“Say again?” you ask.  He laughs into your neck again, sending shivers down your spine.  Soon, his warm tongue slips out as he continues to kiss you.  Arching your back, you feel his hard length at your ass.  You moan softly, and he places a hand around your neck.

“Feel what you do to me?” he groans, thrusting his hips forward slightly, his erection digging harder into your backside.

“I didn’t even do anything,” you moan back, laughing breathily.

“That’s the problem,” he growls, his other hand fiddling with the waistband of your sweatpants.  He tickles the skin there, delighting in the way your stomach jumps at his touch.  His fingertips travel further south, caressing thick curls before reaching your wet folds.  He growls again, feeling your arousal for him.

“So fuckin’ wet all the time, baby,” he pants, biting your earlobe and sucking the flesh into his mouth.  You moan louder, throwing your head back on his shoulder and slowly circling your hips on his hand.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he coaxes you.  “Gonna make you feel so good.”

Before you know it, your clothes are gone and you’re pinned underneath Joel on the couch, the large quilt covering both of you.  He’s buried inside you, lips smashed against yours, setting a slow but deep rhythm as he thrusts in and out of you.

Something is different about the way he makes love to you.  It’s gentle.  Loving.  Deep.  He’s touching the innermost parts of you in more ways than one.  He holds you like you’re the most precious thing, like a small bird enclosed in the palm of his hand that he has been tasked with caring for, ensuring its survival.

You feel a lot like that bird.  He’s seen the worst of you and has never left your side.  He’s kissed your tears and nursed you back to health—though he’s never complained.

“I love you,” you whisper in between moans.  He’s pushing you closer to the brink of orgasm, your muscles spasming around him.

He pauses for a moment.  You peer at him, faces only inches apart, exchanging labored breaths.  The obsidian orbs that stare back at you are sprinkled with gold flecks, sparkling in the dim light of the large room.

“Fuck—that almost made me come,” he pants, still staring at you.

“So come, Joel,” you soothe him, swiping curls out of his face.

“Say it again,” he commands you, pulling back until just the tip remains inside you.

“I love you, Joel,” you repeat.  He thrusts back inside you, hard.  You yelp at the pressure and pleasure.

“Fuck,” he spits.  “I love you too, sweet girl.”  You cry out as he continues this new punishing pace.  Your back arches and your eyes snap shut, the pleasure he’s giving you settling over your vision like a hazy cloud.

“Look at me.  Look at me when I make you come,” he commands you, snapping his hips into you.  He grips your jaw and pulls your head down, forehead locked with yours.

“Oh, fuck—Joel!” you scream, your orgasm squeezing the air from your lungs.  Joel follows suit, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he empties inside you.

 A few beats pass before Joel finally rolls off you with a groan to pad into the kitchen for some water.  You pick up your phone from the coffee table and gasp at what you see on the lock screen.  You look around the house frantically, trying to remember if you locked the doors.

“Joel,” you whisper, panicked.  It’s quiet in the house, but he can’t hear you from the kitchen.

“Joel!”

Hearing you shriek, he trots back to the living room as quickly as he can.

“Sweetheart, y’alright?” Joel pants, setting the glass of water on the coffee table and sitting next to you on the couch.

You show him your phone.  His face instantly curls into a scowl.

“Goddammit,” he growls, “Better call the officers and tell ‘em we got company.”

The anonymous number texted you again—and sent pictures.  Pictures of Joel on top of you, inside you on your aunt’s couch.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: You two just didn’t learn your lesson, huh?

You forward the text messages to Officer Adams in a heartbeat.  Joel pulls you into his arms, smoothing your hair while he murmurs into your temple.

“S’alright, baby.  We’ll be okay.  They’ll figure this out.”

You want to believe him, but the knot in your gut tells you otherwise.

The seven-hour drive to Chadron, Nebraska was going swimmingly.

Traffic was quite light, the weather was perfect, and a gorgeous Nebraska sunset crept slowly over the horizon, the clouds perfect orbs of pink and orange cocktails.

Earlier, Joel packed quickly and parked your car in his garage, where his Bimmer usually sat after loading both of your bags and other items.  He’d kissed your hand and gazed into your eyes for just a moment before backing out of the driveway, the amber flecks of his eyes having resurrected after your reconciliation at the gas station.

Five hours later, he’s still holding your hand with his right.  His left is clutching the leather steering wheel as he maneuvers the sedan smoothly on US-20.

You’re both filled with sparks of excitement, anticipation—both of you feel like a new chapter of your relationship has begun.  Something gnaws quietly at the pit of your stomach, though.

Who sent those texts and pictures?  Neither of you had any clue.  You didn’t want to bring it up, not wanting to tear the fresh stitches of your newfound harmony.  Joel didn’t either, though he knew it would come up again eventually.

Joel peeks over at you, noticing your eyes and muscles of your face warped in thought.  He strokes the skin of your hand with his thumb.

“Y’alright, baby?”  The question snaps you back to reality.  You look at him and admire him for a bit before answering, eyes sweeping from the crown of his head to his tan, bearded face and down to his thick neck.  His hair is somewhat unkempt, silvery brunette curls less tamed than usual.  His mouth chews absentmindedly on an old piece of gum he popped some hours ago, jaw muscles flexing about.  A bolt of electricity zings up your legs and into your core as you watch him.

Fuck, you wanted him badly.  You needed his mouth on every inch of your skin, teeth nipping and tongue soothing up and down your bo—

“Darlin’?” Joel interrupts your impending fantasy.  You shake your head and blink a few times, clearing your throat.

“I’m good, swear!” You promise, giving him a lopsided grin.  His eyes fleck down to your lips briefly before returning to your eyeline.  He crooks an eyebrow at you.

“Wanna tell me what you’re thinkin’ ‘bout?” He nudges, voice laced with suggestion.  Your face warms and you bite the inside of your cheek to stifle a full-fledged grin.

“Oh, nothing—just about how comfy this seat is,” you lie, your free hand smoothing the beige leather as you avoid his gaze.  He lets go of your hand and squeezes the top of your thigh, startling you.  You snap your head up to meet his gaze.

“Lyin’ to me now, are ya?  Baby—thought we were good,” he croons, voice dropping an octave into that sexy rumble he uses when things start to get hot and heavy.  You swallow loudly.

“We are good, Joel,” you promise him.  His fingers creep further up your thigh, traversing your goosebump-ridden skin and dipping under your shorts.  He stops once he reaches fabric and strokes the border of your panties slowly.  You clutch the door handle involuntarily and suck in a sharp breath, pulling a devilish chuckle from Joel.

“Jumpy, huh?” He murmurs, eyes latched onto the road.  He continues stroking the leg of your panties, getting closer and closer to where you want him most each time.  Your pussy throbs and you clench nothing.

“Fuck, Joel,” you groan quietly.  He squeezes your thigh in response, chuckling.  His gaze never leaves the highway.  You realize now that you’re squirming, hips circling ever so slightly.  Joel is enjoying this a little too much, evident by the swell in his denim.

His fingertips dip lower slowly—achingly slowly—and caress the seam of your thigh.  His pressure is light, almost light enough that you can’t feel it.  Two of his fingers cross the border of where thigh meets panties and press softly on your core, feeling the wetness there.  You gasp, the sensation jerking your hips forward.  He growls lowly.

“Mmm, baby—wet as fuck for me already,” he groans.  He still isn’t looking at you, though his jaw is clenched and flexed.  You circle your hips more, trying to get his finger to move over your clothed pussy.  He doesn’t oblige you.

“Patience, darlin’,” he chides you playfully.  “Though I bet I can make you come without goin’ under these panties.”

You suck in another sharp breath and feel electrical currents flow from all your limbs to your aching core.  You’re white-knuckling the door handle with one hand and clutching Joel’s wrist with the other.

His fingertips stroke the damp fabric of your panties slowly, ranging from your tingling clit to your soaked entrance.  You moan quietly, not wanting him to know how wrecked you are—a lousy effort, given that he can feel how wet you are.

Over the next few miles, he slowly picks up the pace of his strokes, eventually moving from the linear pattern to a circular one over your clit.  You’re jerking your hips around with the movement of his fingers, clawing his wrist and forearm as he works you.  He groans every now and then, but manages to stay completely focused on the road, which impresses you.  Suddenly, he pulls his hand from your shorts.

Frustrated, you look at him.  He’s panting and sweating, beads of condensation forming on his brow and temple.  He finally turns to look at you, face just as wrecked as yours.

“Know I said I’d make you come without goin’ under your panties, but I can’t help myself— I needa feel you,” he hums.  Your stomach flips in anticipation.

“Move your leg over this way, sweetheart,” he coaxes you, pulling your knee up so your foot rests on the seat.  He strokes the now sopping fabric a few times before needing more.

“Pull ‘em to the side f’me,” he orders.  You obey immediately and pull the fabric to your right, exposing your wet heat.  The cool air of the cabin kisses your wet folds, making you squirm.

Joel looks down at your exposed pussy and growls before looking into your eyes, his teeming with desire.  Finally, his fingertips touch your now-bare pussy, stroking your clit with more pressure than before.  You tip your head back against the seat and cry out softly, his touch igniting you.  He quickly finds your entrance and plunges two thick fingers inside.

“Fuck, baby—you’re soaked,” he rasps, voice almost a moan.  He curls his rough fingers, tips kissing your G-spot, making you twitch on the leather seat.  He increases the pressure of his thrusts, sending you reeling.

“Oh my god, Joel—shit,” you cry out as his pace quickens.  The coil in your belly is stretching faster than normal, and he knows it.

“Yeah, baby, just like that.  Give it to me.”

His fingers ravage you a few more times and the coil snaps, your vision blanking momentarily as you ride the wave of your orgasm.  It’s intense—your legs are clamped tightly around his arm, head lolled back on the middle console of the sedan.

“Fuck—can’t get enough of you,” Joel growls.  He pulls his fingers out of you and sucks them into his mouth.  Your eyes widen as you watch him taste you.

“Always taste so fuckin’ good.  C’mere,” he says, leaning on the center console, eyes still fixated on the highway.  You prop your elbow up next to his and nuzzle your nose in his neck and ear, pressing soft kisses on his tanned skin.  Goosebumps ignite in the pathway of your lips, sending shivers down his spine.  He groans softly.  You kiss his cheek before meeting his lips.

He kisses you as best he can while driving 70 miles per hour in the sunset, fighting to keep his eyes open as you swirl your tongue around his.  He pulls away with a low growl.

“Mm.  We’ll finish that later.”  You suck your bottom lip into your mouth and stifle a giant grin, excited for him to fulfill that promise.

You settle back into the passenger seat and check the navigation status on the sleek screen of the BMW.  One hour left until you’re at the farmhouse in Chadron.

“Almost there.  You excited?” Joel asks, glancing at you.  You nod slowly, watching the landscape.  Western Nebraska is so different from the eastern side—flat, grassy plains with deciduous trees turn to the rolling hills, buttes, and rocky plateaus of a semi-arid cold desert.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been here,” you reply quietly.  Hopefully, your grandma still remembers who you are when you visit.  A pang of melancholy reverberates through your chest at the thought of her, stopping at your stab wound and aching just a bit longer.

Joel’s hand slides around yours and squeezes gently.  A silent y’alright?  You exhale and turn to him, smiling.

“I’m good.  Good to be back here.”

He smiles back at you, warm and comforting.

“Attagirl.  Should I be worried about seein’ your mother?” he asks.  You chortle.

“Nope—you should be worried about me seeing my mother,” you reply honestly.  Joel snorts, shaking his head.

“You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?  We ain’t gotta spend too much time with her if y’don’t wanna,” Joel promises, concerned, his voice rich and smooth like velvet.  Not hearing it for a day made you appreciate the Southern twang and low timbre a little more—and it made you squirm.

“I really just want to see my grandma and enjoy the quiet with you,” you murmur, watching the dry, bristly trees pass by the window.  Joel’s hand travels up to your shoulder and squeezes gently.  A beat passes before he responds.

“Looking forward to it, sweetheart.  M’glad you forgave me,” he hums contritely, hand moving from your shoulder to your hand.  He pulls it toward his mouth and kisses the back softly.

Guilt grips your guts.  It’ll take a while for you to forgive yourself for what you’d said to him, how you’d acted.  Your lips tremble faintly as you watch him revere your hand.

“I’m s-sorry, Joel—I don’t know why I just jumped to the worst possible thing,” you choke out.  He soothes you, thumb tracing shapes on the back of your hand.

“The last few weeks ain’t exactly been easy for you,” he says matter-of-factly.  His fingertips trace your forearm and stop at the gauze covering your wound.  You meet his eyes and see pain and melancholy sewn into the ring of amber around his iris.

Your lips tremble again.  You try to force the words out of your throat, but they stop, like they’re too big to escape.

“You’re okay, baby.  I promise, s’okay.”  You sniffle and nod, leaning your head onto his arm, propped on the middle console.  You close your eyes and inhale.  The sleeve of his rolled-up flannel shirt smells like his room, his skin like his shower gel he’s used for god knows how long, mixed with your scent.  Time passes as you lie there, feeling the grooves of the highway and listening to the quiet hum of the engine.

An hour later, you arrive at the farmhouse.

The Bimmer glides down the gravel road before turning onto the long, windy dirt driveway.  Dozens of old cottonwood trees dot the sides, heart-shaped leaves swaying with the wind.  The familiar dial-tone call of red-winged blackbirds perched on the barbed wire fence echoes throughout the wide space.  The sun has almost fully dipped below the horizon, leaving flecks of pink in the lower half of the sky.  It’s beautiful—and then you see the house.

It’s almost exactly how you remembered it, with some minor tweaks.  The roof and siding were replaced—the colors were the same as before, only new, and much brighter, lacking the chipped paint and dirt from years of farm life.  The grass around the front porch was longer, less tame, though the flowerbeds were very well-kept.  You’d guessed your aunt took care of the flowers religiously and called someone to come cut the grass every now and then.

Joel parks in front of the garage and gets out first to open your door.  He offers his hand, and you take it as you step out of the car.  He guides you to the front door, warm palm strong on the small of your back.

“Go on.  I’ll bring the bags in,” he says, tickling your back briefly before stepping down to retrieve your luggage.

You stare at the front door, eyes tracing the metal sign of your mom’s maiden name that’s been hanging on the door since your grandparents got married 60-some years ago.  A small smile plays on your lips as you picture them when they were your age.  Young and in love farmers, with their entire lives ahead of them.

Sighing, you remember the front door key is hidden somewhere around here.  It’s been years since you’ve had to use it, though you have a decent idea where it’s stashed.  A familiar, old, rusty watering can propped next to the front door catches your eye.  Bingo.

You try to stick your hand in the top hole to grab the key, but it’s too small.  Turning it upside-down, you jiggle it a few times and listen to metal clanging inside the can before a small brass key lands on the porch.  You retrieve it and unlock the door.

The inside is largely unchanged.  It’s an open floor plan, which surprises you given the fact that the house is over one hundred years old.  The front door opens into the living room, containing several floral couches with quilts thrown over the back.  Pictures of family, including several unflattering ones of you, line the plastered walls.  Your favorite part of the room is the brick fireplace, a cross and dried palms from Palm Sunday decorating the hearth.

The front door swings open and Joel steps in with the bags.  You don’t notice, though—you’re too busy battling with nostalgia.  Every Christmas, you’d sit in front of the fireplace and watch the flames dance.  Your grandparents didn’t get a TV until Grandpa retired from farming, so you’d spent holidays here playing outside or in the company of your many relatives.

Two strong arms loop around you and pull you into a sturdy chest, effectively removing you from the Land of Nostalgia.  Joel’s nose lodges itself behind your earlobe and inhales slowly, deeply.

“Mmm,” he breathes.  “Y’smell good, darlin’.”  You shiver, goosebumps erupting in the path of his breath.  His voice is lower, deeper than usual—like he wants you.

“I smell like sweat and leather,” you gripe, leaning your head back onto his shoulder.  He chuckles, lips caressing the soft skin of your neck and stubble scratching behind them.  His hands slip under your shirt to feel more soft, warm skin.  You suck in a sharp breath and moan quietly.

“Joel,” you murmur, hands gripping his forearms lightly.  He hums into your neck as his mouth moves toward your shoulder.

“I’m supposed to give you a tour before you get all handsy,” you scold him, pushing your butt against him to create some space between the two of you, feeling his hard on in the process.  You pry his strong grip from your torso with a huff—he’s tough to move, especially when he’s on a mission.  He chuckles and throws both hands up in surrender.  You quirk an eyebrow at him and shake your head, fighting the grin threatening to erupt on your face.

“You got 10 minutes, baby—after that, I’m finishing what I started,” he threatens, mirroring your raised eyebrow.  Your stomach lurches.

“Fine.  Pay attention,” you tease, pointing a finger at him.  He laughs, but his eyes betray him—they’re lust-filled, twinkling with desire for you.  You turn toward the kitchen, feeling his eyes traverse your backside as you walk.

“Kitchen,” you say nonchalantly, not giving him time to stop and appreciate the rustic farmhouse kitchen that was renovated a few years ago.  You turn into a corridor, stopping at the first door on the right.

“Bathroom,” you recite, moving quickly to the next door, cattycorner to the bathroom.

“Guest bedroom.  You’re sleeping here,” you tease him, pointing to the bed and raising your eyebrows at him.  He shakes his head, half-smile pulling his cheek.  You move to the last room of the hallway, on the right.

“Master bedroom,” you say, standing in front of the ajar door so Joel can come in.  He pushes your hip slightly, causing you to move further into the room so he can shut the door.  Your loud gulp seems to echo in the small room.

“S’this where you’re sleepin’?” Joel rasps, taking slow steps toward you, backing you toward the bed.  His head is lowered as he stares up and down your frame.  You stop, legs meeting the corner of the bed.  Your pulse quickens.

“Y-yes.  I’m sleeping here,” you answer him, watching him get closer and closer.  He stops when his feet touch yours.  You feel his warm breath on your face, your neck.  The veins in his neck are popping out—he’s straining himself to maintain control.

“Guess I’m sleepin’ here too, then,” he says huskily, eyes locked on yours.  He leans in until you feel the hairs of his mustache tickle your lips.  Your eyes shut instinctively and you lean in closer to him, preparing for your mouths to meet, but they don’t. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, gaze flicking between each of your eyes.  Wrecked is the only way to describe his expression.

“What?” you whisper back, voice hoarse and throat dry.  You lick your lips involuntarily and his eyes flick downward to watch.

Before your mind can register it, his lips crash onto yours and he pins you underneath him on the mattress.  His rough fingers slip under your shirt, and one travels up over your sternum, landing on your throat and squeezing softly.  You moan into his mouth.

His tongue pries your lips open before tangling with yours.  The hand on your throat slips out for a second, and both of his hands cradle your face as he continues kissing you fervently.  He moans at the feel of your lips and body underneath him, his erection pushing on the zipper of his jeans.

Without a word, he sits back on his heels to pull your shirt over your head, taking your ratty sports bra with it.  He growls at the sight of your naked chest before ravishing each nipple with his mouth.  You arch into him, the piercing pain of his teeth and warm soothe of his tongue taking over your senses.  He kisses down your stomach, curved nose gliding on your hot skin.  His mouth reaches the waistband of your shorts and kisses along its length as you squirm underneath him.

Impatiently, he bites the waistband and pulls back before releasing it, the snap of it on your abdomen making you jump.  He chuckles devilishly, black eyes boring into yours.  You can’t tell where his pupils end and irises begin—the ring of amber is gone, swallowed by his dilated pupils.  He wants you so fucking badly.

It dawns on you now that he’s still fully clothed, boots and everything.  Rough fingers hook into your waistband, but you place both hands on his forearms.  Immediately, he stops the impending disrobe and looks at you.

“You have to match me first,” you say, tugging the sleeve of his flannel.  He narrows his eyes at you briefly, relenting.  Impatiently, he unbuttons the plaid shirt, huffing as his fingers get stuck on the bottom one.  You giggle.

After a few more huffs and puffs, he manages to peel the flannel and undershirt from his damp skin, revealing a familiar, sexy torso and strong arms.  Warmth blooms in your chest at the sight.

“Better now?” he chides, making no efforts to disguise his frustration.  You place a palm on his chest and stare up at him.  His gaze softens ever so slightly.

“Why the hurry, Joel?  We have nowhere to be,” you ask him, fingertips tracing down his torso, brushing the dark hairs that dip below his navel and stopping at his waistband.  His eyes close as he relishes your touch.

When they open, obsidian wells stare back at you.  Joel grabs your hand and leans down to kiss it.  The act is so reverent, so delicate that it stops your breath for a moment.

“I know, darlin’—just can’t get enough of you,” he croons, head dipping down to kiss your collarbone.  He pins your hand next to your head and continues kissing down your chest, stopping at both breasts once again.

“I ever told you how much I love these?” he whispers into your skin, looking up at you briefly.  After letting go of your hand, he massages one breast as his mouth continues working the other.  A garbled moan escapes your throat.

In a blur, he removes your shorts, leaving your soaked green thong.  He scoots down the bed, getting comfortable with his head in between your legs.  Lightly, he blows on your core, looking up at you only when you start squirming.

“Guess we need to work on your patience, huh baby?” he teases, handsome smirk stretching his face.  You groan and throw your head on the bed, arching your back.

“Nice view from here,” he hums, turning his head to nibble on your inner thigh.  He moves over to the other thigh, ignoring where you want him most.  You squeeze his wrists, attempting to sway him—he doesn’t budge.  A deep chuckle travels from his throat into your skin.

“Mmm… you’re soaked,” he breathes, taking a finger and brushing up your middle, featherlight.  You gasp at the sensation, drawing his eyes.

“Y’like being teased, huh?  Naughty girl.”  He continues stroking your clothed cunt at a glacial pace.  “Look at me,” he orders.  You prop yourself up on your elbows and look down at his gorgeous face, brushing stray curls from his forehead.

“Wanna see your face when I do this—s’my favorite thing,” he murmurs, planting random kisses on your pelvic area, but never on your tingling core.  You nod, frustrated and panting.

He sits back on his heels again and finally hooks his fingers into your underwear, pulling them over your ass as you bridge up and then slowly down your legs.  He takes the opportunity to appreciate the view beneath him and lets out a low whistle.

“You’re so beautiful—are you sick of me tellin’ you that?” he asks, settling in between your legs again.

“Never,” you exhale, chest heaving in anticipation.  He smiles up at you before licking a stripe up your core.  Almost immediately, you groan, the warmth and wetness of his tongue on your pussy sending fireworks up your spine.  He dives right in, giving you no time to acclimate to the pleasure.

Instinctively, you throw your head back as he continues licking you.  He mumbles into your pussy.  It’s almost unintelligible, but then you remember his request from earlier.  Look at me, baby.  You obey, watching him eat you while he’s gauging your reactions.

It’s erotic and filthy, the sights and sounds of him undoing you with his mouth.  You know he’s enjoying this, given the moans that escape his lips and into your wet folds.  Suddenly, he stops moving his head and leaves his tongue out, eyes still glued to you—like he’s waiting for something.

“Joel—move,” you plead, running your fingers through his sweaty hair, getting frustrated again.  He murmurs a breathy huh-uh, tongue still glued to your lips.

Suddenly, you understand what he wants.  He wants you to fuck yourself on his tongue.  Your stomach flips at the realization and you gasp quietly.

A rush of adrenaline surges through your body at the chance to take over your pleasure—to use him as you see fit.  You oblige him, each roll of your hips inching you closer to orgasm.  He leaves his tongue out for the most part and just observes, groaning at the sight above him.  After every few circles of your hips, he sucks lightly on your clit to lap up your seeping wetness, making your thighs quake around his head.

With no notice, the coil snaps.  The room fades to black as you ride the wave of your orgasm.  Weightless, tingling bliss overtakes your consciousness.  You can almost hear Joel talking you through it, though his voice sounds faraway and echoey, like you’re inside a tunnel.

You barely register that he’s stripped himself of his jeans and boxers and is on top of you, kissing you with enough heat to burn the house down.  Unable to wait any longer, he flips you over and tugs your hips toward the edge of the bed, folding you over the quilted comforter.  Hastily, he reaches down and pushes the head of his cock inside you, hitting the edge of you in one smooth stroke.  The pain brings you back down to earth quickly.

“Fuck!” you yelp.  Joel cracks a hand down on one of your ass cheeks as he thrusts into you, making you cry out once more.

“That’s it, baby—take it,” he growls, rough and domineering.  This side of him exhilarates you.  You’ve never met anyone that can be dominant and affectionate simultaneously.

After what seems like single-digit strokes, Joel pulls out suddenly.  Hot liquid splashes your lower back and ass.  Immediately, the mood within the bedroom changes—hot and heavy to tense.  You crane your neck to look behind you.

Joel’s face is pinched in agony—brows furrowed, sweat dripping from his forehead, teeth clenched.  One hand is gripping your hip, the other emptying himself onto you.  He doesn’t notice your gaze at first.  When he does, the look in his eyes is bashful.

“M’sorry, baby—that’s never happened t’me before,” he apologizes, clearly embarrassed.  He avoids eye contact and lets go of your hip to search the room for a rag.

“Joel, it’s okay,” you promise him, watching as he shuffles around the room.  He continues searching in the small bathroom attached to the bedroom.

“Come here,” you plead, worried.  He emerges with his tail between his legs and a small washcloth in hand.

He stops at the bathroom entry and sighs as he finally meets your eyes.  He’s unable to stop the small smirk that creeps on his lips as he sees you, still on your hands and knees for him.  You match his smirk and beckon him.

“Apparently I’m off my game, sweetheart,” he laments, wiping your skin with the warm rag.

“Oh, stop—each time is perfect, Joel.  No matter how long it lasts,” you say, waving him off.  He tosses the rag in a hamper near the opposite end of the room before pulling you off the bed by your hips and into his arms.  He kisses the front of your ear.

“Baby… I’m a gentleman, you know this.  I never wanna come before you do,” he murmurs into your ear, hands spanning the front of your chest and torso.  As his fingers traverse your skin, you lean into him and relax, the stress of the last few days leaving your body.  Exhaustion quickly settles behind your eyes, and you yawn.

“Bedtime already?” Joel whispers in your ear.  You mumble in affirmation.

“Go on, lie down.  I’ll make sure the doors are locked,” he says, kissing your temple chastely before pulling the quilt back and helping you settle into bed.  The room is dark, enveloped in nightfall that came unnoticed during your session of passion with Joel.  You hear his footsteps patter around the old wooden flooring of the farmhouse, getting louder as he returns to the bedroom.  He scoots in behind you, curling you into his warm chest.

“I love you,” he whispers in your ear before kissing the corner of your mouth.  Before you can reply, you’re sound asleep.

Morning arrives in puffy, gray clouds filled with heavy raindrops.  Their pounding on the bedroom window wakes you.

The room, also blanketed in gray, is filled with only the sound of rain and Joel’s patterned breathing.  He’s on his back, hands clasped on his chest.  Gone is the look of agony on his face from last night.  Pure serenity describes his features in this moment.  His lips twitch frequently—you wonder what he’s dreaming about.

Suddenly, an idea emerges in your sleep-hazy mind, fueled by last night’s events.  A sly, half-smirk soon follows.

Carefully, you climb on top of Joel, leaving soft kisses on his face, neck, collarbone, and chest.  He stirs momentarily, a quiet moan leaving his throat.  You pause, peeking up at him to ensure he’s still sleeping.  The steady rise and fall of his chest affirms it.

You continue pressing your lips on his skin, slipping your head under the quilt once you’ve reached his navel.  The long hairs leading further south tickle your chin.  With one hand, you reach for his cock, only to find that it’s rigid.  Either he was dreaming of you, or his body responded to your touch quickly.

You get comfortable between his legs and kiss the tip of his cock gently.  His hips jut imperceptibly.  You move further downward and swirl your tongue around his balls, and his thighs tighten around you.  Pausing again, you look up at him.  Still sleeping, or so you think.

Silently, you spit on the head of his cock and use your lips to coat his shaft with it.  Not caring whether he’s asleep anymore, you take him in your mouth and suck, adding enough pressure that his hips jolt upward.  The curses that slip from his lips let you know he’s finally awake.

Joel pulls the quilt off you, releasing the trapped heat in the process.  With two big hands, he pulls your hair out of your face and twists it into a knot as you work him with your mouth.

“Shit, baby—feel fuckin’ good,” he pants.  You moan on his length in response.

He bucks upward, letting you know he’s close.  Before he can finish, he cups your face and pulls you off his cock, tugging you closer for a messy kiss.  You whine into his mouth as you settle in his lap.  With silent strength, he lifts you by the ass and sits upright, back leaning against the headboard and legs splayed.

“Help me out here, baby,” he urges you, still holding you above his lap.  You reach for his cock and line it with your entrance before he slowly spears you with it, his palms squeezing your ass with enough pressure to leave bruises.  As always, the stretch of his cock sucks the breath out of you.

“Good god,” he groans through gritted teeth.  Your tight, wet heat ensheathes him perfectly.  Slowly, he reaches your cervix, pausing as your muscles continue to spasm around his thick cock.  Your arms loop around his neck, face tucked into the crook of it as you moan into his skin.  After a few beats, he slides you back up his cock and slams you back down.  You scream.

“Tell me how good it feels,” he growls, continuing to pound into you at a fierce pace.  You can’t speak—all the air in your lungs has escaped.  The only sound you can manage is a pained squeak.  With another growl, Joel flips both of you over while still inside you.  Now on top of you, he folds your legs forward with his hands as he continues thrusting into you, the new angle hitting deeper.  You arch your back and cry out again.

“Need to hear you, baby,” he reminds you, brows furrowed, teeth clenched as he watches you beneath him.

“Feels s-so fucking good, Joel,” you sputter, meeting his intense gaze.

“So fuckin’ pretty on my cock, darlin’,” he coos, watching where your bodies meet.  Your orgasm creeps closer, each deep thrust igniting flames inside you.

“I’m close,” you warn him.  He folds your legs back further and pounds into you several times before you come, hard.  Joel follows suit a few pumps later, spilling himself inside you and collapsing on you.

Both of you lie there for a moment, panting and stroking each other’s sweaty skin.  Joel breaks the silence.

“Am I forgiven now?  F’my shortcoming last night?” You chuckle at the inadvertent pun.

“Short… coming?  Is that what you want to call it?” you say, bursting out into laughter.  Joel’s rumbly chuckle shakes both of you.  He sits up and pulls out of you, the movement and your heightened sensitivity making you twitch.

“S’time to get up and movin’, do—,” Joel starts, interrupted by a loud thud.  He quickly stands and walks over to the door, leaning an ear on it.  Fear engulfs you, wiping the smile off your face.

Thud.  This one, much louder, makes you jump.  Joel turns to look at you, brow raised in confusion.  The sound of broken glass from inside the house almost makes you scream and turns Joel’s confusion into fear. You clap a hand over your mouth, eyes widened in pure horror.  Loud footsteps invade the living room, coinciding with the loud pounding of your heart in your ears.

Think.  Scanning the room, a lightbulb illuminates in your head.

“Joel—get my grandpa’s gun,” you whisper, “It’s under the bed in a case!”  He nods, throwing his boxers on quickly before pulling you off the bed by your arm and taking you into the bathroom.

“What? No, le—,” you rebel, but he cuts you off.

“Stay here.  I mean it,” he orders you, voice stern and expression serious.  “I love you.  Need you safe, y’understand?”

Tears pool in your eyes and you nod.  He kisses you quickly.

“Don’t come out unless I say.  And lock this door.”  You nod again, and he shuts the door.  You turn the old latch above the doorknob, the metal clicking in place.  The next thing you hear is the loading of your grandpa’s shotgun.

Fuck.  Who would break into a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere?

The sound of the door breaking open startles you.  Then, a loud boom shakes the bathroom.  You scream.

Somebody got shot—but who?