Like a Stray Cat
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Pairing: Old!joel miller x female!reader
Summary: you tiptoe into Joel Miller’s home like a stray cat, always giving him a heart attack, always flashing those doe eyes, tear-spilled and aching, and making his heart twist. So he protects you—cares for you, cooks for you, calls you pet names. But that night feels different. Heavy. There’s an ache crawling through your body, one you don’t understand and can’t quiet. You try. You fail. And when you get caught—by the same man who just called you “kiddo”—you can’t help but ask him for help.
Warnings: 18+, smut, MDNI, age gap! (60s and 20s), pillow grinding, masturbation, really inexperienced!reader, one (1) light thigh spank, fingering, joel teaches you how to touch yourself with a mirror, soft!joel, like the sweetest Joel, he is super flustered, fluff, pet names, lot’s of praise, joel calls reader kiddo/kid, implications of abusive household, implications of abusive father, drunk father, outbreak, kind of dbf!joel but not really
A/N: if anyone can still remember this from the poll i made monthsss ago, you are a real one🤞🏻 but i loved writing this, it’s filthy but also so incredibly soft, sweet and joel is just a sweet old man :((( (he is alive and well) anyways, i hope yall enjoy this!!🫶🏻
“Jesus Christ, girl. Told ya not to scare me like this.” He huffs out, boots creaking on the old wooden floor as he turns to face you. “Sneakin’ up on me like a damn cat.”
The light outside is slowly fading, as his eyes scan you—quick, instinctive. He takes in the flushed skin, the way your dress hangs crooked on your frame, the tremble in your fingers. Then his gaze lands on your tear streaked cheeks, and something shifts.
His whole face tightens in worry.
“Did ya daddy say mean things again?” He pinches your chin in his hand, making you look up to him.
You can only nod, unable to speak—because if you did, you were sure the knot in your throat would unravel, and you’d sob, just like you did hours before coming to Joels house.
He softly coos, one arm wrapping around your body as he pulls you into his chest. “Oh, babygirl,” he whispers, resting his chin gently on top of your head. “I’m sorry.” Then he presses a kiss there, steady and long.
His words sink deep into your bones, steadying your heart—not with judgment, but with understanding and care.
“S’okey.” You mumble, burying your face into his flannel shirt further, taking in his musk.
“Hell, I probably stink, don’t I?”
Joel just came back from chopping wood. His hands were rough—calloused, streaked with dirt as usual. Sweat clung to his skin, glistening along his neck and brow, soaking into the collar of his shirt. The scent of him was musky, edged with pine and smoke, but also of course, a hint of sweat lingering behind.
You loved burying your head into his chest.
“Not really,” You mumble. “Can I stay here tonight?” You ask, pulling away from his embrace and locking eyes with him—the question making your cheeks all flushed, a hint of embarrassment behind them.
“We can’t keep doin’ this, bug.” Joel murmurs, finger twirling a strand of your hair. “You come back every single time, like a damn stray cat.”
You roll your eyes at that, but a smile tugs on your lips.
“What? it’s true. I feed her, give her some milk and she always tip toes into my house back and gives me a near damn heart attack.”
You couldn’t quite pinpoint when it all began.
Maybe it started when your dad and Joel, being neighbors, began visiting each other—trading food, clothes, medicine like good old friends. Or maybe it was when you and Joel started talking about everything and nothing, while you found yourself trusting him with things you hadn’t told anyone else. Then again, it might have been that night you tiptoed into his house without asking, desperate for a place to stay after your dad had been cruel to you again.
Even then, he never asked questions. Even then, he knew what you needed in that moment, as if he could read you.
They all say in town: Joel Miller is a rough, stern, stubborn, and gruff man. But you always saw the opposite. You saw the way his fingers shifted patterns on your skin, careful not to let his dry hands scrape you. The way he’d place a cold hand on your forehead and leave it there—steady and quiet—until your migraine melted away. You heard his voice becoming softer when he talked to you.
And then there were the quiet actions. Like replacing the kitchen clock with a quieter one, just because you once told him—without meaning to—that the ticking reminded you of the one in your father’s room: loud and fast.
Or how he never locks the door anymore. Always leaves the porch light on, so you know—you can come in, even if it’s the middle of the night.
You sometimes wished he was your father.
“I tell ya what. You help me with bringing those logs inside and then you can stay here.”
You nod, eagerly.
So, he gestures towards a pair of worn boots by the step—his, clearly too big for you, but the only option he’s got.
“Go on,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Slip into those. Ground’s cold.”
You glance down at the boots, then back up at him, one brow raised.
He sighs, already exasperated. “Why ya always gotta come barefoot anyways? Ya gonna catch a cold.”
You roll your eyes, a little smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m fine.”
And before he can argue, you step past him, bare feet brushing over the cool stone, then the grass, then the packed dirt of his garden path.
Joel watches you go, but then shakes his head, chuckling. He can’t stay mad at you. Never.
The wood’s already stacked neatly near the shed, thick logs piled in a criss-cross pattern. You bend to grab one, arms wrapping around the weight of it, and carry it back towards the house. Joel moves the same, grabbing two—instead of one—and moving them into his house.
You come back for another, but as your foot shifts on the ground, something sharp presses into your sole. You hiss, stumbling slightly, and glance back at him.
He’s already shaking his head.
“Told ya to wear the boots, honey bun.”
You stick your tongue out at him, giggling as you hobble a step, then straighten and scoop up the log anyway. Joel smirks, eyes accidentally lingering on your legs as you walk back towards the house, the hem of your dress swaying with each step.
You’re halfway through stacking the last of the wood before Joel disappears into the hallway. You don’t think much of it—just keep moving, barefoot on the cool floor, arms full of logs that leave little flecks of bark on your dress.
When you place them down, and turn around, he’s back. Holding something.
A pair of thick, worn, brown socks.
He tosses them onto the couch, then goes to close the door to his garden. He jerks his chin towards his couch. “Sit.”
You blink. “What?”
“Sit down, kiddo.” His voice is calm, but firm. “You been runnin’ around barefoot like a damn forest sprite. Floor’s cold. You’re gonna catch somethin’.”
You roll your eyes, arms crossed. “I’m fine.”
Joel gives you a look—that look—the one that says, “I could bend you over and spank you,” and you know better than to argue. With a huff, you drop onto the couch, legs swinging slightly.
He kneels in front of you, knees popping—followed by that quiet dad groan he always makes as he lowers himself. His hand comes up, wraps around your ankle real gentle but firm.
You try to pull back, but he doesn’t let you.
“Quit squirming. Let me take care of you.”
You go still, cheeks flushing.
He slips the first sock over your foot, slow and careful, as if you’re something fragile. His fingers brush your ankle, your calf. He doesn’t look up, his eyebrows are pinched, concentrated
“Can’t have you gettin’ sick. Cold floor like this’ll mess with your stomach. You’ll be cryin’ to me about cramps in a day or two.” He murmurs.
You snort. “You sound like an old man.”
He smirks, sliding the second sock on. “Yeah, well. Old man knows how to keep you warm, bug.”
When he’s done, he pats your knee, then leans in—just a little and presses a kiss to the inside of your ankle. Soft. Barely there.
Your stomach does a small flip. And your toes curl against the rug, like your body’s reacting before your mind can catch up. It’s just a kiss, soft and low on your ankle, but it sends something warm skimming up your spine.
Then he stands up slowly, “There. All better.”
You wiggle your toes in the socks, quiely recovering from the kiss. They’re too big, smell like cedar and laundry soap—just like Joel smells whenever he changes clothes. You don’t say thank you. You don’t have to.
Joel’s already watching you with that quiet, unreadable look—the one that says he’d do it all over again, every day, just to keep you safe.
Then he clears his throat, voice low and lazy.
“Whatcha want to eat, huh, hon?” You glance up. “We can make some pasta,” he adds, already turning towards the kitchen.
You hop off the couch, socks slipping slightly on the floor, and trail after him. “You always make some pasta.”
Joel shrugs, pulling open a cabinet. “It’s easy. And you love my pasta.”
You climb onto the counter, legs swinging, watching him move m—sleeves pushed up, hands steady, the taught rhythm of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. He grabs a pot, fills it with water, sets it on the stove.
“You gonna help or just sit there lookin’ all cute?” he mutters, not looking at you.
You grin. “I’m moral support.”
Joel snorts, tossing you a clove of garlic. “Then start peelin’, bug.”
So, you do. Slowly. While watching him out of the corner of your eye as he moves around the kitchen and hums under his breath. The silence between you isn’t awkward…it’s warm. Familiar.
And when he brushes past you to grab the salt, his hand grazes your knee. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even look at you.
But you feel it. And so does he.
Slowly, the air starts to smell like olive oil and tomatoes. The kitchen, warm now, feels like home—the kind you never had, but Joel made for you.
He glances over his shoulder at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re gettin’ more garlic on the floor than in the bowl, bun.”
You shrug, grinning. “You’re the one who made me help.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he stirs the sauce.
Then—suddenly—a knock on his door.
Your heart jumps. The garlic slips from your fingers, forgotten. You freeze, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat.
Joel looks up, brows furrowing. “Relax,” he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “It’s probably just Tommy.”
But you’re already sliding off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud, knowing what it could mean if your father finds you. You duck behind the counter, heart pounding, curling in on yourself like instinct. Joel watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Alright,” he mutters, more to himself now. He walks to the door, slow and steady, and opens it just a crack. And the smell hits him first—sharp, sour, unmistakable. Then the voice.
“You’ve seen my girl, Miller?”
Joel’s jaw tightens. Your father stands on the porch, swaying ever so slightly, eyes glassy, breath thick with liquor. His shirt’s half untucked, belt askew, like he got dressed in the dark.
Joel doesn’t blink. “Nah,” he says, voice flat. “I was home all the time.”
Your father squints at him, leans in too close.
“You sure?”
Joel’s eyes narrow. His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You callin’ me a liar?” And hell, he could punch the shit out of him if you weren’t behind the counter.
There’s a beat of silence. Then your father scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and stumbles back down the steps, disappearing into the dusk.
Joel watches him go, jaw clenched, hand still on the doorknob, trying to calm himself down from the anger he is feeing. Only when the sound of retreating footsteps fades does he shut the door, slow and deliberate. The lock clicks into place.
He turns around.
You’re still crouched behind the counter, peeking up with wide, sad eyes. Your hands are clenched in your lap, shoulders drawn tight.
Joel’s face softens instantly, the anger washing away as fast as it came. He crosses the room in a few strides and kneels besides you, his knees popping as he lowers himself down.
“You stayin’ here tonight,” he says gently, “Maybe even tomorrow.”
You don’t answer. You just throw your arms around his neck, burying your face into his chest. He catches you so easily, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapping around your waist.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your hair. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you here. I got you.”
You nod against him, breath shaky, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing a thumb under your eye. “It’s alright now. Let’s keep cookin’, yeah? My tummy’s grumblin’”
You manage a small smile. He helps you up, steadying you with a hand on your back, and guides you gently back to the counter.
The garlic’s still there, waiting. The water’s boiling. And Joel—Joel is right beside you, like he always is, and always be.
—
The pasta’s gone cold, but neither of you seem to notice.
You’re sitting across from Joel at his little wooden table, legs tucked under you, fork still in hand.
Joel leans back in his chair, watching you with that unreadable look. You can feel it—the way his eyes linger, the way his fingers tap slow against the rim of his glass.
You set your fork down. Swallow hard.
“You know…” you start, voice soft. “I don’t really trust people. Not anymore.”
Joel’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“But I trust you.” You look up to meet his eyes. “With everything.”
He shifts in his seat, like the words hit somewhere deep. He looks away, jaw tight.
“Don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t go puttin’ that kind of faith in me. I ain’t no good man, baby.”
You shake your head, voice steady now.
“Well… you’re better than my father.”
That lands like a stone in the room. Joel’s eyes snap back to yours, something raw flickering behind them. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say that won’t break the moment.
Finally, he leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “That ain’t sayin’ much.”
You smile, sad and small. “It’s sayin’ enough.”
Joel exhales, long and slow. Then he reaches across the table, rough fingers brushing yours. He doesn’t grab your hand—just lets his rest there, close enough for you to choose.
And you do.
You slide your hand into his, and he closes his fingers around yours tightly. You expect him to let go, to change the subject.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he lifts your hand slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss to your knuckles—soft, sweet, delicate, like he’s done it a thousand times in his head but never dared to do it for real.
Your heart warms.
It started with safety. With wishing he was the kind of man who could’ve raised you. But now, when he looks at you like that, and kisses you— you know it’s something else entirely.
And then there is another thing. The one where Joel makes you feel different. Not in your heart but rather…down there. Deep in your belly, where butterflies loom whenever you look at his calloused hands, whenever he stands in front of you—broad shoulders and as a big man who could handle anything.
A giggle slips out before you can stop it.
Joel raises an eyebrow. “What’s funny?”
You shake your head, cheeks warm. “Nothin’. Just… your hands are so big.”
He laughs, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something darker, deeper. “Yeah? That a problem?”
You shrug, trying to play it off, but your tummy does a little flip as his thumb brushes over your knuckles again, slow and absentminded.
The room is dim now, the outside fully dark. And if it weren’t for the gentle brushes of his thumb over your knuckles, it would be the silence that let’s you a yawn slip. Stretching your mouth wide before you can stifle it.
Joel catches it instantly.
“Looks like somebody’s tired already?” he says, voice low and teasing.
You blink at him, eyes heavy, lips curved in a sleepy smile. “M’not.”
He chuckles, his hands leaving yours before standing up and offering the same hand. “C’mon, honey bun. Let’s get you tucked in before you fall asleep on my damn table.”
You take his hand without hesitation, letting him guide you down the hall—his thumb beginning to brush over your knuckles again.
He stops in front of the small door and pushes it open with a quiet grunt. The hinges groan slightly, like they haven’t been used in a while. The room beyond is cozy, if a little dusty—a twin bed tucked against the wall, a faded quilt folded neatly at the foot, and a big mirror leaned against the other side of the room.
Joel steps inside first, flicking on the light. Dust motes dance in the glow.
“S’been a while since you were here,” he murmurs, running a hand along the edge of the mirror. His fingers come away gray, and he wipes them on his jeans with a quiet huff. “Should’ve cleaned up better.”
You smile, stepping in behind him. The room is small, but it’s yours. Always has been. He never says it out loud, but he keeps it ready—just in case.
Joel walks over to the bed, pulls the blanket back with a dramatic flourish, and pats the mattress. “Alright, bug. Hop in.”
You climb in, the sheets cool against your skin, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. Before you can settle, Joel grabs the edge of the blanket and throws it over you, tucking it in tight around your sides.
Then, with a grin, he starts rolling you—gently, playfully—wrapping you up like a burrito, like a cocoon. “There we go,” he mutters, half to himself. “All wrapped up. Ain’t goin’ nowhere now.”
You giggle, squirming a little under the snug weight of the blanket. “Joel!”
He chuckles, crouching beside the bed, one hand braced on the mattress, the other smoothing your hair back from your face.
“You always do this,” you murmur, eyes soft.
Joel grins. “You always giggle.”
You peek up at him, voice quieter now. “You always kiss my forehead.”
Joel’s expression shifts—something tender flickering behind his eyes. His voice drops, warm and low. “And I always will.”
He watches you for a beat longer, then leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead—slow, gentle, lingering just a second too long. A silence settles between you, thick with something unspoken. Then he clears his throat gently.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he says, softer now. “Still need to work on somethin’. If ya need anythin’, just come down, yeah?”
You nod, cheeks warm, eyes already heavy.
“Okay.”
“Night, honey bun,” he whispers.
And then he stands, walks to the door, and slips out without another word, closing it behind him with a soft click.
—
It hits you just minutes after the door clicks shut. A slow, pulsing ache deep in your belly. A thrum of want, right where your hands have never wandered before.
You shift on the bed, the sheets cool beneath your thighs, the air still holding the warmth of where he was. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure. You glance towards the door, half-expecting him to come back. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
The silence stretches.
You sit up, then lie back down. Pull the blanket up, then push it off again. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s holding something in. Like something wants to release, but it can’t.
Your eyes flick to the mirror across the room. You don’t recognize the girl staring back—flushed cheeks, parted lips, pupils wide like she’s seen something she wasn’t supposed to.
You think of Joel.
His voice…low, steady, rough. The kind that settles in your chest and stays there.
His hands—big, calloused, careful. The way they brushed over your hand, the way he kept you wrapped up around his chest. The way he looked at you—not like you were fragile, but like you were worth protecting.
You close your eyes and breathe him in, even though he’s gone. The scent of him still lingers—soap, cedar, something with wood.
Your hand moves without thinking. Just resting. Just curious.
You’re not sure what you’re doing. But you know what you’re feeling.
You never touched that place. But today, something in your body wants more. Something aching to be touched, something that makes your pulse go faster, your breathing deeper.
So your hand starts moving—slow strokes over your damp panties. Your cheeks burn as the first waves of pleasure stir beneath your skin, soft and startling.
It feels good.
Too good.
A spark flares, sharp and sweet, and for a moment you think—maybe this is it. This is what your body wants. But it fades too fast. Dissolves before it can crest. You’re left with a pulse that won’t settle and a need that won’t quiet.
So you try again.
Stroking up and down. Left and right. Your body responds—hips shifting, breath catching. It’s good. More than good. But it’s not enough. Like trying to drink from a glass that’s just out of reach. You taste it, but you’re still thirsty. Your breath comes out in sharp waves and your hand moves faster, chasing something that’s there something you are not quite sure how to reach.
But you fail. The burning sensation on your cheeks grow, and you’re breathless when you let your hand fall.
You shift again, restless. Your thighs press together, trying to chase that feeling. Your gaze drifts across the bed, landing on the pillow near your hip. You hesitate. Then, slowly, you pull it between your legs, the fabric cool against your skin and the now, more dampened fabric.
You close your eyes, hips rocking against that feeling.
You don’t know what you’re doing—only that it feels good. You sit up, straddling it. The pillow is soft beneath you, and your hips begin to move faster without permission. You bury your face in the sheets, breath catching, heart pounding.
And somewhere in the dark, his name flickers on your tongue.
Joel stands at the kitchen sink, cleaning the dishes from the pasta. He should’ve gone to bed by now, leave all of that and just relax. But something’s keeping him up—a restlessness in his chest he can’t shake. If it’s guilt, or love—he can’t decide.
He thinks of you. The way you looked at him tonight, the way your eyes peaked from behind the counter. The way you wrapped your arms around him like he is the only person that can save you.
He runs a hand down his face, exhales slow. “Get a grip,” he mutters to himself. “She’s just a kid.”
Still, it lingers. He folds the same dish towel twice. Stares out the window like it might give him answers.
And when he finally heads to the hallway, to wash his face, put on his something more comfortable—he hears it.
Upstairs, Joel freezes.
He’s halfway to his bedroom when he hears it—your voice, muffled but clear, calling his name in a tone that makes his stomach twist. It’s not loud, but it’s enough. Enough to make his heart lurch.
He doesn’t think. Just moves.
Two long strides and he’s at your door, pushing it open with a sharp breath.
“Baby?” he calls, voice tight with worry. “You okay—”
Then he sees you.
You’re on your knees, straddling the pillow, frozen mid-motion. Your breath catches. Your eyes go wide. Your mouth is parted, lips swollen, cheeks flushed a deep, blooming pink.
Joel stops dead in his tracks.
His heart drops straight into his boots.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. He turns his head, suddenly aware of what he’s walked into. “Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to barge in like that.”
But then you say it again.
“Joel,” you breathe, voice trembling, needy. “Please.”
He doesn’t know what you’re asking for. Doesn’t know if you know. But the sound of it—the way you say his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left—hits him like a punch to the chest.
His cheeks flush hard. His hands find his hips, like he needs something to hold onto.
“Gosh,” he says, voice rough. “The hell are ya doin’, bug?”
He doesn’t even know why he asks. He sees it. Clear as day. But his brain’s still catching up to his heart, and his heart’s caught somewhere between panic and something he doesn’t dare name.
You sink down on the pillow slowly, heart pounding, shame already rising in your throat. “I… I can’t help myself,” you whisper, voice thin and breathless. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flick back to you, going soft. “S’alright,” he says, voice low. “I’ll just—”
“Will you help me?”
The words tumble out before you can even stop them.
Joel freezes. Really freezes. His whole body goes still, like the air’s been knocked out of him. He looks at you, disbelief written on his face, and something shifts. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. He’s searching for words and finding none.
“I don’t know what I’m doing…” you whimper, voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to make it stop.”
Joel’s hands fall from his hips. He rubs his forehead, dragging his palm down his face like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Nah. Not happening.“
“Please, Joel.”
He shakes his head, backing towards the door. “No, baby. I— I can’t. You can just… do whatever you need. I’ll leave ya alone.”
He turns, hand on the doorknob, already halfway out.
And then you say it.
“It hurts…”
Just two words. Barely a whisper. But they hit him like a bullet.
Joel stops.
His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut. He curses under his breath—not at you, god, never at you—but at himself. At the way his heart twists. At the way his body responds, his cock wakes up in his pants. At the way he wants to help you, even while he knows he shouldn’t.
So, he turns back around.
Steps into the room again, slow and quiet. He walks awkwardly and sits down besides you, careful not to touch.
His eyes land on your flushed skin, sweat on your forehead, the way your hands are gripping the pillow as if it’s going to run away from you. And then the small wet spot you left—on his pillow. His. Joel’s head turns into mush.
“W-what do ya want me to do, bug?” he asks, voice almost broken.
You should be embarrassed. You should be hiding your face, pretending it didn’t happen. You shouldn’t be asking him for help. But you don’t feel shame anymore. Because it’s Joel. And with him, you don’t feel ashamed. You feel safe.
You look at him, eyes glassy, lips parted. “Touch me.”
Joel flinches. His jaw tightens. He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “God, baby… it ain’t right to do things like that when you’re visitin’ someone.”
He rubs his face, voice cracking. “You’re young. You’re hurtin’. And I’m supposed to be takin’ care of you, not—” He stops himself, breath shaky. “Not this.”
You look at him, heart breaking a little, eyes wide and wet, voice barely a whisper. “But you said you would help me with anything.”
Joel freezes. That line hits him like a punch in the ribs. And he swallows hard, jaw clenched, eyes flicking away. “I did,” he murmurs. “I did say that.”
Why did he have to say that, for fuck sake.
He rubs his palms together, like he’s trying to scrub the guilt off of his skin. “Didn’t think it’d be this, bun. Didn’t think you’d be askin’ me for somethin’ like this.”
Silence stretches between you two. His eyes on you. On your skin. On your dress that’s hitched up. And on the small bit of your underwear that he can see. He lets out a shaky breath, seeing the way the fabric is completely soaked. He huffs, soft and low.
“Y’really are needy, aren’t you, huh?” His voice is deep, but soft.
You nod your head silently, shifting your hips to show him the mess you made. He swallows, muttering something under his breath that comes close to “christ.”
“Ain’t gonna touch you,” he says, finally. “But you can listen to my voice, yeah? Let me take care of you like that.”
You blink at him, confused. Lips parted, brows drawn.
Joel sees it immediately—sees the flicker of doubt, the question in your eyes—and his heart damn near cracks. He knows you’re just needy, just desperate to feel something. And he feels like a real bad man for denying you.
“I just…” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his mouth. “I don’t wanna mess this up, bun.”
You tilt your head, still quiet. Still waiting. Like a cat.
“You’re all soft right now, all sweet. All needy.” he rambles, “and I know you trust me. I know you feel safe. And I ain’t gonna take that and twist it.”
He shifts, nervous. His hands twitch like they want to reach for you—but fhey don’t. They can’t.
“So I’m gonna talk you through it. Just my voice. You’ll still feel good. I promise. But this way… you’ll know I ain’t just takin’ advantage.”
You nod, slow, understanding what he is trying to say. You see it in his eyes, guilt written on them. You don’t want to make him feel bad. So, the tension in your shoulders eases, and you trust Joel to make the ache go away.
“Okay,” you whisper. Joel exhales, shaky and repeats: “Okay.”
“Alright then,” he murmurs. “Do what you were doing before I came into the room.”
You hesitate, eyes flicking to his. He nods, just once. “Go on. I’m right here.”
He shifts where he’s sitting, his body turning towards you. Now, his whole attention is on you.
So you move—just like before. Still unsure, still not a damn clue what you’re doing. Your hips begin to buck in that familiar rhythm, slow and searching. A soft whine slips from your lips as the now cool, damp pillow brushes against your aching heat. The sensation is new, startling, and you want to chase it.
You glance at him, eyes wide, waiting.
He sees it—the unsureness in your gaze. The need. And his voice comes low, steady, like a hand on your spine. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. You’re doin’ good. So damn good.”
You inhale sharply. The words settle over your skin. You hadn’t expected it to feel like this—how his voice alone could make your body respond, how praise could feel like touch. You move again, tentative. His voice follows you, steadying.
“Go slow, baby. No rush. Let yourself feel it.”
Each slow grind of your hips draws a quiet squeak from the mattress, rhythmic and raw. Your breath stutters, a whine escapes your mouth.
He hears it, so his voice dips lower. “You’re so beautiful like this. So sweet. Look at you.”
And Joel feels guilt in his chest rising from the words that leave his mouth. He swallows hard, jaw clenched. His voice is steady, but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you.
You glance at him, always. Only at him, awaiting something. Cheeks flushed, lips bitten bloody.
He gives you a nod, eyes warm but careful—not trying to let you see the guilt. “Keep goin’. I’m right here, bun.”
You move faster, shaky, needy, guided by his voice.
The tension starts to build, hips stammering in that rhythm he coaxed from you with nothing but words. You’re right there, teetering, the edge rising up to meet you—
And then it’s gone.
The pressure breaks, not into release, but into absence. A gasp tears from your throat, sharp and helpless. You freeze, blinking hard, chest heaving.
Frustration prickles at your skin.
“I—I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “It’s not working.”
Joel’s jaw tightens, he sees the frustration. Sees the way your hips messily buck, your chest rising up and down quickly.
“I wanted to,” you whisper. “I really tried.”
He nods, brushing a hand down his face, like he’s trying to steady himself. Then, quieter: “I know. I saw you.”
Your breath hitches, frustration bubbling up in your chest. You blink fast, trying to swallow it down, but the words slip out before you can stop them.
“I—I never did it.”
Joel stills. His brow furrows. “What?”
You look away, cheeks burning.
“Touched myself I mean,” you whisper. “I tried before, but… I don’t have any privacy in that goddamn house. Someone’s always around. I never—” You shake your head, voice cracking. “I never got there.”
Joel’s face softens. He nods, slow and quiet, like he’s piecing it all together.
“That’s why you’re so worked up, huh?”
You nod, eyes downcast, lips trembling. You feel embarrassed for making such a scene tonight—keeping him up, begging him to touch you. But you don’t know any better. You don’t have anyone else.
He hesitates, then shifts closer, voice low and careful. “Can I… can I try somethin’ else?”
You look up, confused. He swallows hard.
“Still not gonna—” He stops, starts again. “Still not gonna take more than you give me. But maybe if I just…”
He lifts his hands, palms open, hovering over your hips.
“Just here,” he says. “My hands. That’s all. I’ll guide you. Help you move. Nothin’ more.”
You whisper, “please,” and reach for him without hesitation, your fingers curling around his hands like you need him to stay grounded. Joel exhales hard by your reaction, as if the wind’s been knocked out of him. His hands settle on your hips, warm and trembling.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re going to fuckin’ ruin me, bug.”
You blink up at him, breath catching, feeling the throbbing get worse now that his hands are on you.
He shakes his head, eyes locked on yours. “Always fuckin’ using those eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Always knowin’ you get what you ask for, don’t you?”
You blink up at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you squeeze his hands.
“I just look at you.”
Joel huffs a breath, something like a laugh but heavier. “’Course you do, baby.”
His gaze drops, catches on the slow, unconscious roll of your hips on the pillow—like your body’s still chasing the rhythm, even if your mind hasn’t caught up.
He swears under his breath, voice thick.
“C’mon then,” he says, shifting closer, hands squeezing gently on your hips. “Let’s get you there.”
You start moving your hips again, while Joel’s hands guide you, slow and sure now, his voice a low hum in your ear. And every time you falter, his grip reminds you: he’s here. He’s watching. He wants this for you.
And somehow, that makes it easier. Makes it deeper.
The friction is good, but it’s his hands that make you tremble. His hands that coax the heat higher. His hands that tell you it’s safe to fall apart.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “Movin’ so good for me.”
You whimper, chasing that edge again, feeling it coming closer and closer. He leans in, lips brushing over your cheek.
“Sweet little thing,” he breathes, “So fuckin’ good for me.”
Something in you breaks open at that—soft and aching. You can’t help it. You lean forward, forehead pressing to his shoulder, breath hot against his neck.
Joel stills, just for a second. Then his hands tighten firmer on your hips.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “You rest right there, baby. I got you.”
You nod against him, breath trembling. He keeps talking, voice low and steady, every word a touch. You feel more wetness soaking the pillow, more mess forming between your legs. And he notices it.
“Didn’t know you had all that in you, honey bun.”
You bury your face further into his neck, heat rushing to your cheeks. You don’t say anything—can’t. Your body’s trembling, and his words only make it worse. Or better. You’re not sure anymore.
And he also notices the way your hips go faster, the way your thighs clench, the way your breath hitches.
“You’re shaking, baby. You gonna make another mess for me?”
And it hits you right in the chest. You whimper, barely, and lift your head. Your eyes meet his—wide, glassy, desperate. You nod. Just once. Small. Needy. Like you’re asking permission and giving it all at once.
Joel groans, his hands tightening on your hips.
“You’re doin’ so good. So proud of you. Let it come, bun. Let it take you.”
“J-joel.” You whimper out.
“M’right here. M’right here, baby.” He whispers, gently squeezing your hips and moving you against the pillow faster.
“I think—it’s coming, Joel.” You whimper, breathless.
Joel nods, his hands guide you on the pillow with a steady, fast rhythm, with the right amount of pleasure. You fall back to his neck, releasing a hiccup, hands holding down on the sheets, feeling that coil in your tummy finally about to snap and then—
…It’s gone again.
You freeze, breath caught in your throat, eyes wide with disbelief. Your face stays buried in his neck, hot with frustration, your breath hitching in little gasps.
“It’s gone.” you whisper, voice cracking.
Joel holds you tighter, one hand smoothing slow circles down your back. He doesn’t say anything at first—just breathes with you, steady and warm.
“What am I gonna do with you, bug, huh?” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
You lift your head, eyes glassy, almost crying lips parted.
“Please,” you whisper. “Do something. I don’t care what. Just… please.”
Joel’s jaw flexes. He looks at you, then away, scanning the room like he’s searching for an answer. That’s when his eyes land on the mirror. On the long, full-lengthed one, leaning against the wall. He stares at it for a beat, then huffs a breath.
“Your father’s gonna kill me,” he mutters.
You blink, trying to figure out what he is thinking. “No,” you say, voice trembling but sure. “You’re stronger than him.”
Joel lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “You got no idea what you’re sayin’, baby.”
Then, you put your hand on top of his again, squeezing gently. “I do. I trust you.”
Joel’s mind spins with possibilities—how this idea could play out, how it might shift the shape of your relationship, how it could make him look like something he’s not. Like he’s crossing a line. Like he might ruin you. He looks at you for a long moment, searching. Then he nods. Slow. Decisive.
“Alright,” he says, voice almost broken. “Let’s try somethin’ different.”
He stands up, the bed dipping as he rises. Then he turns, reaches a hand out to you.
“Let me show you somethin’.”
You blink up at him, confused, but you take his hand. He pulls you up slowly, the pillow that just sat between your legs, now completely wet and ruined laying there in the corner. He steadies you when your knees wobble, and pulls down your dress again.
Together, you walk across the room, his hand warm around yours. The mirror looms ahead—tall, full-length, catching your reflection in the dim light.
He steps behind you, his hands resting on your hips. You meet his eyes in the mirror.
“You trust me?” he asks.
You nod, almost too quickly. Because you do. You trust him with everything you have.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“Then let me see you, baby.” A shiver runs down your spine. “Can I take your panties off?”
Your breath catches. No one’s ever asked you that before. No one’s ever seen what lies behind the fabric.
And for a second, you freeze. Not because you don’t want it—but because it’s him. Because it’s real. Because this isn’t about being used. It’s about being seen. Because you trust him.
You nod. Slow. Careful. Then whisper, “Okay.”
Joel nods, pushing your dress up and hooking into the waistband of your panties, slow and deliberate. He kneels as he draws them down your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours in the glass.
His eyes land on your pussy, and he licks his lips without even noticing.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “So god damn pretty.”
You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face in your hands. “Joel…”
“What?” he says, looking up and grinning. “I’m just tellin’ the truth.”
You peek down at him through your fingers, cheeks burning, but your cunt still pulses. Still asking. Still open for him.
“Sit,” he says softly, guiding you down.
You lower yourself onto the floor, the plush rug cool against your thighs. Joel kneels behind you, his presence a wall of heat at your back. Then he shifts, legs sliding out on either side of yours, bracketing you in.
You’re nestled between his thighs now, your back against his chest, his arms resting loosely around your waist.
He leans in, his voice a low murmur against your ear.
“There we go. You okay?”
You nod, breath catching, looking at yourself in the mirror.
Then, with slow hands, he reaches down, his palms gliding over your thighs. He nudges your knees apart, spreading you gently until your legs rest over his.
“Just like that,” he says. “Let me hold you open.”
You glance at the mirror, at your swollen pussy, then to Joel. Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away. Not this time.
“I don’t want you to just feel it. I want you to watch how your body moves. Watch how it wants this. You ain’t broken, bug. You’re just learnin’.”
You nod, but your voice is small. “I don’t even know where to touch.”
Joel’s hands settle on your thighs, grounding you. He leans in, his voice a low hum in your ear. “Then I’ll show you, baby. Just once. So you know where to start.”
Joel’s hand hovers just above your center, not touching yet.
“Before we get there,” he murmurs, “you gotta learn how to tease yourself. Build it up slow. That’s how you make it last.”
“I know you’re already worked up with two ruined orgasms…” his eyes softly find yours in the mirror. “But I want you to also learn it for other times, yea?”
You nod before you even realize it, breath catching in your throat. You don’t fully understand what he means—not quite yet—but you trust him. You trust that whatever he’s teaching you, it’s not just about your body. It’s about you.
“Okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I’ll try.”
He smiles, just a little. “That’s my bun.”
And when his hands return to your hips, guiding you again, you let go of the fear. You let him lead. You let yourself feel. He brushes his fingers along the inside of your thigh, featherlight. You shiver.
“Start here,” he says. “Skin’s soft. Sensitive. You touch yourself here, you’re tellin’ your body what’s comin’.”
He drags his fingertips up, tracing the curve of your thigh, then across your hip, your lower belly.
“Then here,” he whispers. “Your mound. Just a little pressure. Not too much. You’re not tryin’ to rush it—you’re sayin hello.”
You watch in the mirror, mesmerized by the way his hands move, by the way your body responds.
“You feel that?” he asks, his palm resting just above your center. “That heat?”
You nod, lips parted.
“Good,” he says. “Now we go lower.”
His fingers dip between your folds, still avoiding your clit, just gliding through the slickness there.
Joel’s fingers glide through your slick, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t rush—just lets himself feel you, lets you feel it.
He groans, low and wrecked.
“Goddamn, baby…” he murmurs. “You’re soaked.”
You squirm, cheeks burning, but you don’t look away. Not this time. You watch how his big fingers explore your cunt, how the pleasure feels tingly.
He pulls his fingers back, glistening with your arousal. Then, without a word, he brings them to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, voice rough.
You do. Lips parting, breath trembling. He slides his fingers past them, slow, letting you taste yourself.
His eyes stay locked on yours in the mirror.
“Tastes sweet?” he asks, voice low and wrecked.
You nod, your heart beating faster, your tongue curling around his fingers. His fingers are big, and you need quite a while until you suck your arousal off.
He groans, deep in his chest. “Good.”
Joel watches you suck his fingers, slow and shy, your tongue curling around the taste of yourself. His breath is ragged behind you, chest rising and falling against your back.
Then, he pulls his fingers free again, slick and warm, and you gasp like you’ve lost something.
Suddenly, he pulls away from you and mutters, almost to himself: “Hang on.”
He reaches for his glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. Slips them on with one hand, slow and deliberate. You catch his reflection in the mirror—the way his eyes narrow behind the lenses, the way his jaw tightens.
“There,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “Now I can see exactly where she is.”
His hand slides down, slow and deliberate, until his fingers hover just above where you ache. Then, just when you least expect it; his fingers part you gently. The cold air meeting your slick coated cunt.
You shift in front of the mirror, thighs trembling, eyes flicking up to meet his in the glass.
“See this right here?” He taps on the little nub once, featherlight. You jolt. “That’s your clit, baby. That’s where all that ache’s comin’ from.”
“This little thing’s what makes you fall apart. You ever touched it like this before?” he asks.
You shake your head, quietly, your cheeks flushed.
“That’s alright,” he taps on your little clit again. “You feel that? That little twitch? That’s your body beggin’ for more.”
A gasp leaves your mouth when he gives you one rub. You squeeze your eyes shut, your head falling back against his chest. And suddenly, Joel lands a spank on your thigh making you jolt against him and open your eyes wide. “Keep your eyes on the mirror. I want you to see what I see.”
His hand smoothes over the spot. “Easy bug,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. Just want you here with me.”
His hand stays steady between your thighs, fingers gliding through your slick, slow and reverent. You’re trembling, breath shallow, eyes locked on the mirror like he told you.
Joel’s voice is low, almost hypnotic.
“Slow circles,” he murmurs, brushing over your clit with the lightest touch. “Not too fast. Not too hard.”
You twitch, hips jerking, but he holds you still.
“Just like this,” he says again, rubbing in a lazy rhythm. “Slow circles. That’s how she likes it.”
You whimper, your head falling back again on his shoulder. You feel the pleasure in your tummy slowly building—just from feeling his middle finger on top of your clit. And he doesn’t stop.
“There she is” he whispers. “All swollen and pulsing.”
He keeps rubbing, patient and precise, and your body starts to melt into his.
“She’s real sensitive,” he says. “You rush her, she’ll shut down. But you take your time…”
He presses just a little firmer, and you gasp.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s the spot. You keep her there, she’ll take you all the way.”
His fingers never stop moving, and his voice keeps repeating, grounding you in the rhythm.
“Slow circles. Soft pressure. Let her talk to you.”
Joel’s fingers keep working you in slow, deliberate circles, never rushing, never faltering. The pleasure builds like a storm, tight and trembling in your belly. Your thighs are shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
You can’t hold it in anymore.
“Joel,” you whine, the sound broken, desperate. “I—please—”
He stills. Just like that.
You cry out, hips jerking, chasing the friction he’s stolen. But his hand stays still, warm and maddening between your legs.
He leans in, “Now you continue,” he says. “Let me see if you listened.”
You blink, dazed, your whole body buzzing.
“Wha—?”
He guides your hand down, curling your fingers over your clit, still slick from his touch.
“You’re so close, baby,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop now. Show me you remember.”
Your hand trembles, but you start to move, mimicking the slow circles he taught you. Your breath catches. It’s not the same as his touch—but it’s yours. And it’s working.
Joel watches you in the mirror, his hands resting on your thighs, grounding you.
“That’s it,” he says, voice thick. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty like this. Wrecked and tryin’ so hard.”
You whimper again, your body arching, chasing the edge he left you on.
“Keep goin’,” he whispers. “You’re almost there.”
Joels hand circle your thigh and before you even notice it, his other hand is gently rubbing on your nipple over the fabric. You gasp, trying to keep the rhythm of the circles on your clit, but it’s hard to do when you feel his hands and his gaze watching you.
Your breath stutters. Your legs shake. Your vision blurs.
“Joel,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—I think—”
And then it hits.
Your body arches, a cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashes over you—sharp and deep and endless. You collapse back against him, your whole body trembling, your hand falling away from your center.
Joel catches you, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. A hand sneaks down to cup your cunt, pressing his palm on your clit to make you ride out your orgasm. You bury your face in his shoulder, breath ragged, heart pounding.
“There you go,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “That’s it, baby. You did so good.”
You whimper, still shaking, overwhelmed. Your first orgasm.
“Shh,” he soothes, rocking you gently. “I got you. I got you.”
He presses a kiss to your hair, his voice warm. He slowly removes his hand, making sure that the throbbing slowly fades away.
“First one always hits hard,” he says. “You held on so long. Now you let it out, bun. You earned that.”
You’re still trembling, your body boneless and warm, your breath slowing in Joel’s arms. He doesn’t rush you. Just holds you there, your back pressed to his chest, his hands gentle on your thighs.
One of them drifts up to your waist, rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin. The other stays low, massaging the sore muscles of your inner thigh, where you’d tensed so hard.
You melt into him, your head resting on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.
“Did so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “So proud of you, bug.”
You hum, barely awake, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Thank you.”
Joel smiles, soft and warm.
“’Course, baby,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you.”
You sigh, content, your fingers curling around his wrist where it rests on your belly.
For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the weight of his arms, and the quiet hum of something new blooming between you.
And then your voice comes out, soft and sweet, but bold.
“Now I want one from you.”
He stills, breath catching. Joel looks at you in the mirror, searching for your eyes. Then a low chuckle rumbles in his chest.
“That so?” he says, voice rough with restraint. “You really bringin’ me to my limits today, aren’t you, bug?”
You smile into the mirror, still dazed, still glowing. Joel’s always been careful. Too careful. He’s guided you, watched you, whispered praise—but never let himself touch you the way you crave. And you understands why. You know he’s afraid of taking too much, of being too much.
“You said you’d do anything for me,” you whisper, the words soft but sure.
Joel groans, tipping his head back with a quiet curse.
“Y’gonna always play that card now?” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just awe. Just surrender. So, this time—Joel does not argue, he doesn’t let guilt take over him. His fingers find their way down, on your clit and resume their slow, sweet rhythm, just like before. You twitch beneath his touch, still sensitive, still trembling.
“You still sensitive, hm?” he murmurs, watching your body react, watching your eyes flutter in the mirror.
He spreads your pussy lips, creating a v-shape with his fingers. Your cheeks flush again, looking at your aching cunt—your hole clenching.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, then goes back to rubbing your clit.
But you wonder. What does it feel like? When something is inside, when the pleasure comes from there instead of your clit. And then you wonder: how would his big fingers feel in you, and you can’t help but arch your back, a whine escaping from your throat.
“Inside.” You mumble out before you can stop yourself.
Joel stills, his breath catching. His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, dark and steady.
“You want it inside?” he asks, voice low, reverent.
You nod again, cheeks flushed, body aching.
Joel leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“You sure, baby?” he asks, “It might hurt a little. First time always does.”
Your breath stutters. You hadn’t thought about that. Not really. But you nod anyway. Because it’s him. Because you want to learn. Because you want it to be him who teaches you.
Joel leans in, lips brushing your shoulder.
“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs. “Real slow. You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
You nod again, more certain this time. Your body aches, but your heart is louder—beating with trust, with want, with the quiet hope that this will be different. That he will be different.
He nudges his middle finger against your opening, and your breath hitches.
“Relax for me, bun.” He gently coaxes. “I wanna feel you take me in soft.”
You try to breathe, slow and deep, but your body’s tight—nerves coiled, thighs trembling. You’ve never done this before. Never let anyone in.
But Joel’s voice is there, smooth, wrapping around you like a blanket. “That’s it, baby. Just breathe. You’re doin’ so good.”
His finger presses again, gentle but sure, and this time your body yields—just a little. Just enough.
It’s strange at first. Not painful, not really. Just… full. New.
You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, but Joel’s hand is on your hip, grounding you.
“You okay?” he murmurs, still. Waiting.
You nod, breath shaky. “Yeah. Just… it feels weird.”
“First time always does,” he says, voice warm. “But you’re takin’ me so well, bun. So fuckin’ sweet for me.”
And with that, he eases in a little more, slow and careful, watching your face in the mirror the whole time. When his whole finger is in, he hums.
“Tight little thing, aren’t you?” Kissing your temple, he presses in just a little deeper, slow and careful. “You’re makin’ it real hard not to lose my mind here, bun. You feel what you’re doin’ to me?”
Your body jolts when he curls his finger just right, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat before you can stop it. Your thighs twitch, your breath stutters, and your eyes fly open—wide, startled, overwhelmed.
Joel’s watching you in the mirror, gaze dark and steady, lips parted like he felt it too.
“There,” he murmurs, voice thick. “That little spot right there?”
He presses again, slow, and your hips buck before you can stop them.
“That’s your G-spot, bun.” He kisses your temple again, his free hand stroking your side. “Feels good, don’t it?”
You nod, breathless.
Joel’s fingers start working you slow and sweet, in and out while rubbing your clit with his thumb. Your body trembles, your breath catching with every stroke. You’re close again, the pleasure building fast, and you can’t hold it in.
Your body arches into him, still trembling, still so sensitive. The second wave is building fast—hotter, sharper, like your body’s been waiting for this all along.
His voice right at your ear. “That’s it, baby. Let me take care of you.”
You whimper, your hips rolling into his hand, chasing every stroke.
“You’re gonna soak my hand, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over me.”
You nod, breathless, your fingers digging into his thigh. You can’t even process all the dirty things he is saying into your ear. It feels like you’re floating.
“Please,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”
His breath catches, and his hand stills for just a second—just long enough to feel the way you clench around him, desperate and trembling.
He murmurs, voice thick. “You beg so fuckin’ sweet.”
He curls his finger again, slow and deep, dragging it right over that spot that makes your thighs shake.
“Oh, bun… you’re right there, huh?” He asks, “So close I can feel it. You’re flutterin’ around me, squeezing me so tight. Cunt’s begging to come.”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rush. Just keeps that steady rhythm, dragging his finger over that spot again and again.
“Come on, baby. Let go for me. Wanna feel you make a mess on my hand.”
Your breath catches—then breaks. The pressure snaps, and you fall.
Your whole body seizes, thighs clamping around his wrist, a cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, endless. Your cunt pulses against his finger, and wetness gushes out of you.
Joel holds you through it, one hand on your belly, the other still deep inside you, grounding you as you ride it out.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “So good. So fuckin’ good. You’re perfect. You hear me?”
You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body limp and warm. He kisses your temple, his voice soft now, reverent.
“You did so good for me. My sweet girl.”
Slowly, carefully, he begins to ease his finger out. You whimper at the drag, the sudden emptiness making your body clench around nothing.
“Shh, I know,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re so so good.”
Joel wipes his finger on his jeans as you sag against him, your legs barely holding you up. He catches you without a word, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back into his chest.
Your heart’s still racing, but his hands are warm, his voice soft, and you feel yourself start to come back—slowly, gently, safely.
You’ve never felt this way before. Not just the pleasure, but the after. The way he holds you like you’re something fragile and precious. Like he’s proud of you. Like he’s not going anywhere.
The room slowly begins to fill with silence, the kind that hums with everything unspoken.
And then you shift, just slightly, and feel it—wetness, warm and unexpected, seeping through the fabric of his jeans where you’re sitting in his lap.
You blink, dazed, and glance down. Then up. You turn around.
Joel’s face is flushed, his jaw tight, eyes flicking away like he’s been caught.
You tilt your head, lips parting. “Joel…?”
He exhales, low and rough, then meets your gaze.
“Couldn’t help myself, bun,” he murmurs, voice thick with something between awe and apology. “You—watchin’ you like that… callin’ out for me… I just—”
He shakes his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
“You undid me.”
You blink, lips parting, and then something soft blooms in your chest. You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the stubble there.
“You came… just from me?” you whisper, wonder in your voice.
He nods, eyes searching yours.
“Yeah. Just from you.”
You smile, slow and sweet, your heart fluttering. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you whisper, and it’s not a joke—it’s the truth.
Joel lets out a shaky breath, his arms tightening around you.
“You’re somethin’ else, baby,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You nuzzle into his neck, your voice barely a breath.
“I like that I can make you feel good too.”
He kisses your temple, ”You do. More than you know.”
Then he murmurs, voice low and a little rough: “C’mon, let’s get us both cleaned up.”
You nod, barely awake, but you don’t move. You just hum and nuzzle into his chest. Joel chuckles softly, his hand smoothing over your waist. Then, after a beat, he adds—almost shyly:
“And then… maybe you’d like to sleep in my bed tonight?”
You blink up at him, eyes soft, lips parting.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”
Joel exhales, something easing in his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple, his voice low and steady.
“Good,” he murmurs. “’Cause I ain’t gonna let you go back to your father anyways.”
You look up at him, and he’s already watching you, jaw tight, eyes soft.
“You’re safe here,” he says. “With me. Always.”
PART TWO!
okey so this is HALF proofread…if you find mistakes or something doesn’t make sense, just ignore or let me know🥹 I feel like i’m using the word “like” too much…
Well anyways, i know this took a hot minute…i’ve been sick. forgive me pookies 😩 If you liked this, i’d love to hear your thoughts! Comments, messages, little keysmashes…i cherish all of it. you make it worth it 🫶🏻
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