#studioghibelli

Joel’s house is modest, outdated, old. It’s the same house he’s lived in since his early thirties, the house that’s always freezing cold and has absolutely no decoration inside whatsoever, save for the Thomas Kinkade painting above the fireplace that your mother forced him to put up, for some color. It was two stories, a kitchen that screamed old bachelor, and linoleum floors that had seen more active combat than a Vietnam war vet. 

Your car rolls up the gravel driveway embarrassingly loud for the time of night. To be honest, you still weren’t so sure why you had decided to go see Joel, of all people. The steering wheel is clenched between tense palms, fingertips throbbing as you hold on to it tighter. For a moment, you almost consider pulling out and driving back home, out towards the city, far, far, far away from the man that’s sitting just inside, but you see the hallway light flicker on. 

Great. Here we go. 

You cut the radio. You run on a little tough luck, baby. Don’t you sweat it- Sorry, Toby Keith. 

Your vans, busted from daily use, hit the pathway up to his porch with quiet little shuffles, as though every bone in your body is begging you to turn around and seek the comfort of your own bed. But you’ve already locked your car door, already fixed the hem of your dress, already reached out and knocked on the door and-

Joel opens it in record time. 

Your mouth goes dry, but you quickly save face, a little smirk pulling at your glossy mouth when you see the state he’s in. 

Gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, a shirt that’s too tight for a man nearing grandpa age, and messy strands of hair still wet from his shower- locks that are more salt than pepper at this point in his life. He has no business being so handsome, for such an old, old man. HEAVY emphasis on old. Yet… there he stands. 

Joel opens his mouth to speak, quickly forcing them into a thin line as you raise your hand, effectively silencing him before he’s got the chance to joke, protest, or say something stupid and Southern. 

“Nope. No. Not yet, Miller.” You push your way inside without waiting for his invitation, knowing he’ll always let you in, and he watches you with confused, sleep hazy eyes, huffing as you quickly toe off your shoes, arms stretching out as you let the air of his home shuffle in through your nostrils. 

It’s smelled the same for your whole entire life, and it smells the same even now, when there’s a little smidge of tequila in your system and you’re still reeling from a shitty date. Smells like Joel. Like cedar and wood shavings and a hard day’s work, like the same scented candle he always gets, the bergamot amber one he swears isn’t girly. (It is.) 

“Were you a fucking asshole in your early twenties, Joel?” You finally ask, falling back onto the plush couch. An old college football game is paused, something from the nineties, with teams you hardly know and a gritty sort of edge blurring at the sides from the poor video quality. 

Joel snorts. He shuts the door behind him with a click, and without rhyme or reason, grabs your shoes and places them beside his scuffed up work boots. There’s something tender about that, something gentle that you don’t feel intelligent enough to psychoanalyze at this current point in time. 

“No hello?” He grumbles low, sinking into the couch beside you. His knee hits against yours. Familiar. Not super exciting. Still, it makes your belly churn, a feeling you blame on the margarita you had… three hours ago. “But, yeah, sweetheart- and I was probably worse.” Joel’s quiet for a beat, allowing your eyes to settle on him, a gaze he pretends he can’t feel from where he sits, staring at the unmoving screen. “Every man’s a dick in his early twenties, and the ones who pretend they ain’t are tryin’ to sell you somethin’.” 

“Trying to sell me something?” You snort, nodding a bit. “Yeah. Like Mary Kay.” “Huh?” You roll your eyes. “Nothing.” Joel chews on his lip for a moment, tasting copper from where the skin is chapped, and finally takes in a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll bite, girl. What -who- has got your panties in a twist?” 

“Oh. Just some stupid twerp I met off Bumble.” You shrug off your cardigan as Joel repeats the word Bumble out loud, as though it’s his first time ever hearing the noun, and you grab one of his throw pillows, embroidered with a fish and a bear, and hug it to your chest. “He told me I was too much.” 

“The fuck’s that mean?” Joel guffaws, turning to you with furrowed brows. He looks so confused, so annoyed, and the protective little glint that glimmers in his familiar eyes makes your heart pound. You can make out the sun spots scattered over his face from a life spent working hard beneath the sun, old scars from drills and nails and whatever trouble he got into in his younger years, and you can see every line of gray that’s streaked throughout his beard, but it suits him. It’s always suited him. 

“Means I’m too loud. Too opinionated. Too… much.” You shrug, resigning to the fact you yourself don’t exactly understand the comment, and groan out soft. “What’d’you think, Joel? Am I?” Joel stares at you. Long. Hard. Like a man who’s spent almost sixty years trying to learn women and has never gotten very far. But right now? In the dim light of his living room, with her outdated wallpaper and busted old television, he forces himself to try to understand, to try to speak, if only for you. 

“No.” He finally says, tongue dry. “No, I don’t think you’re too much. Think you’re… think, well, you’re smarter’n me, that’s for sure. Only one of us graduated from college, so that’s a start.” You watch through your eyelashes, the way he picks at the skin of his cuticles, the way he fidgets with his watch that’s been broken for a decade but he’s never bothered fixing up. “And… maybe you were too much for that boy.” Your ears perk at the way he snarls boy, as though it hurts his tongue just to speak it. 

That makes a little grin spread across your face. “Think I’m too much for you?” You ask sweetly, knees scraping along the couch cushions as you shuffle towards him. You toss the throw pillow to the ground, and Joel wants to protest. He wants to be a crotchety old man angry about his home goods, but he doesn’t. He just watches the way you shimmy close, feels the way your arm warms against his, the way your fingers ghost over the fabric of his pants. 

He chuckles. Low, unguarded, slightly nervous- although he’d never admit that out loud. “Baby…” He warns so quietly you barely catch it, wrist flexing as he runs his fingers through his hair. But, against his better judgement, he answers your question. “No. Ain’t never met a woman that was too much.” “Are you bragging, Miller?” You breathe soft, an eyebrow quirking as your nail finds the collar of his shirt. He sucks in a sharp breath, and you both pretend it didn’t happen. You thumb the material gently, feeling the softness of the cotton, smelling his shampoo and the toothpaste and that unmistakable scent that’s unique to Joel Miller, and Joel Miller only. 

“Maybe.” Joel watches the way your eyes gloss over, lip chewed between your teeth, and he opens up his arms, knowing you’re still thinking about that boy. “C’mere.” 

You obey, curling up against him like a cat at the scratching post, breath hitching when you feel his palm slide up to the nape of your neck. His fingers, long and calloused and well worked, tangle themselves up in your hair, and there are soothing circles from his fingertips indenting along your scalp real gentle and slow like, as though any sudden movement may spook you, like you’re a wounded animal in the forest he’s just stumbled upon. You snort at the thought. “Don’t gotta be sweet on me, Joel.” 

“Not doin’ it ‘cause I got to.” His lips are pressed to the crown of your head, and he inhales slowly, picking up on your lingering perfume, sweet and feminine, and the remnants of your shampoo from your morning shower. He hates that he knows you always shower in the mornings. “Wanna talk about it?” He finally asks. 

You shake your head no. “Nothing to talk about.” You admit with another shrug, head lolling against the crook of his neck. “Just that… men are fucking stupid.” He laughs at that, a real laugh that shakes his chest and makes his grip tighten just a bit around you. “I coulda told you that.” 

“I’m sure you could’ve.” You mutter, voice bitter and annoyed, before crossing your arms. 

“Hey now.” Joel runs a soothing hand down your back, chuckling softly to himself. “Don’t get all snappy at me, baby. Tell me how to make it better. That’s what you want, right? For me to make it better?” His voice drops, and your face drops with it, nerves suddenly lurching up the back of your throat like you’re choking on the pit of a peach, chest going tight with the sudden questioning.

“W-What?” You can hardly get the words out. “Why- Joel, why would you-” But your words are failing you, and you feel the heat stuttering up your throat, clawing at your cheeks. Death would be kinder than the embarrassment you feel right now.

“You drove all this way, baby. Surely for a reason.” Joel hums, voice cool as a cucumber, and gently drags his palm along the side of your body, feeling your warmth behind the material of your outfit. “No? You don’t want me to take care of it? Don’t need me to make it better?”

“Joel…” Your voice is a whimper, and you hate how your thighs clench, how your body betrays you. Judas, you think to yourself. 

“What is it, darlin’? Tell your old man what you want.” Joel’s breath is hot against your ear, lips brushing against the smooth skin of your lobe, and you let out a groan. 

“I-... Joel. Please. I- this- we can’t-” 

Joel shakes his head, burying his face in the nape of his neck, and he inhales deeply, the air stuttering just slightly. “We can’t what, baby? Use your words.” 

His hand is sliding down your belly, gentle, scoping out the curves and slopes of flesh, his palm magnetic as it glides down towards your thighs. You don’t protest when he slowly raises the hem of your skirt, when his thumb brushes down the front of your panties. 

“Lace.” He hums, fingertip tracing over the material. “You were lookin’ to get some tonight, weren’t you? Dirty girl.” He chuckles, and you feel the noise vibrate through you. You hate that you like it. You hate that he’s making you feel filthy and you want more. More, more, more. 

Your thighs part on your own accord, and you bite down so hard on the inside of your cheek you can taste the hot trickle of your own blood. 

“Dad’ll kill us.” You finally murmur, brows furrowing as you lean further back, your mouth gracing the side of his bearded jaw. You press a little kiss there, eyes closing shut as his digit continues tracing up and down your underwear. 

“He in the room with us?” Joel murmurs, his fingertips slowly headed towards the waistband of your panties. 

“I sure fuckin’ hope not.” 

Joel snorts out a chuckle, nudging your cheek with his. “Then shut the fuck up and let me fix that boy’s mistake, yeah?”

You nod, breathless, and his hand slips behind your panties. His middle finger drags through your folds and you feel his groan before you hear it. A whimper escapes you at the roughness of his touch, the way he gathers up your slick to spread it across your swollen clit, his movements so slow it makes your teeth grit, and you can’t help the way your nails gently dig into the flesh of his forearms. 

“This little pussy deserves better’n some boy who don’t know how to treat her.” Joel rasps, nose nudging your temple as he watches the space between your thighs, relishing in the way you shake for him. 

You moan out low and slow at his words. Nobody’s ever talked to you like that. “And you do?” You tease out, breathless. 

Joel quirks an eyebrow at that. A challenge. You feel his fingers stop against your clit, and he drags them down towards your entrance, slowly teasing your hole, slow and steady, barely pressing in. The heel of his palm brushes up against your swollen bud, and you can feel your wetness dripping, pooling down your ass and into your underwear, no doubt staining his sweatpants. Joel removes his fingers from your fold, and you feel his palm pull back, coming down to slap against your cunt with a little yelp of pleasure and a sudden jolt of your hips. 

“Get up.” And it isn’t a question, it’s an order. 

So you do, knees wobbly, brow furrowed, and you watch as he lays back on the couch. “Sit down.” 

When you turn to sit down on the other end, he rolls his eyes, grabbing your wrists. “No, stupid girl.” And the name makes you giggle soft, makes your cheeks go hot with that terrible, awful feeling. “On my face.”

“Joel-”

“Y’ain’t too heavy and y’ain’t gonna hurt me. Now do as you're told and come gimme some sugar.” His tone is snappy but fond, and your eyes nearly roll back into your head as he speaks. 

With a moan you settle yourself down on top of his face, palms flat against the couch arm that his head rests upon. You gently tangle your fingers into his hair, leaning forward until your forehead is resting on a cushion. His nose nudges through your pussy, and when you hear him inhale, deep, your stomach churns with both excitement, and that terrible nervousness that comes with being naked and exposed in front of someone for the very first time. 

His tongue probes along the opening of your cunt, and you feel him push the muscle slowly in, taste your wetness. Joel groans against you and you feel it straight through your cunt, which the tip of his nose is slowly rubbing, making your thighs shake around his head. 

“Joel.” You whimper, nails dragging along his scalp. 

The chuckle he puffs out is dripping with arrogance, and normally you’d roll your eyes, but his lips trail up and enclamp your clit between them, and your brain goes fuzzy, all thoughts pooling out through your ears as the overwhelming feeling of pleasure overtakes you. 

He pulls back, head popping out from between your thighs, and with his thumbs he spreads you open. You nearly choke, watching his every move with dark, lust ridden eyes. 

“She’s real pretty.” Joel moans, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your clit. “Taste’s like she needed me.” His eyes flick up to yours, and he’s got a boyish charm sparkling in his irises, something mischievous and so horny it makes your legs ache. “That right, isn’t it? Needed her daddy real bad.” Your pussy pulses at the word daddy, and Joel notices. Of course he does. He chuckles, pressing another sloppy, open mouthed kiss against your most sensitive part. 

“That’s what I thought.” Joel hums, cocky as can be. “Came knockin’ at my door like a lost little lamb, drippin’ and beggin’ for me.” 

“Joel…” You beg, jolting slightly forward when he licks a flat strip up the length of your slick. 

“Easy now, sugar. Ain’t even started yet.” 

Joel’s palms, large and rough, drag up the back of your thighs, fingers digging into your ass. “Sit down, baby. Don’t hover. Think I can’t take it?” And when he pulls you down to his face, you whimper, and he grins against the smooth skin of your thighs. “Not too much. Not for me.” His voice is muffled, and you can’t help but snort. 

Joel’s tongue slowly traces over your clit, throbbing and aching for his touch. You feel every nerve in your body awaken, and you feel the warmth of his spit as he takes it between his lips, sucking on it slow and steady. Your hips are rocking on their own accord now, a fistful of his hair in your hands as the other steadies yourself on the armrest, and Joel is groaning like a man starved. 

“That’s it.” He groans into you. “Take what you need, baby. Use my fuckin’ face.” You throw your head back, fingers finding your nipple, and you roll it between your thumb and forefinger, thighs quivering against him as his mouth slurps your cunt. Literally slurps. The noises are wet, wanton, lewd, and you’re fairly certain the next time you walk into a church you’ll burst into flames. 

Joel’s got one hand steadying your ass, helping you grind against him, and his other slowly snakes up, up, up, replacing your fingers with his. He kneads at your tits, thumb brushing over your pebbled nipples, and even as he continues his gentle twisting and turning, his tongue never lets up on your clit. 

He licks and laps and sucks, nose brushing, chin dripping, as though he’s waited all his life to prove his pussy eating prowess. 

You can feel your stomach tightening, that coil heaving its way through your belly, and somehow, somehow, Joel can tell. 

“You gonna cum like this, girl? All messy on my tongue?” His southern drawl glides up to your ears, and you feel something in you snap as his mouth finds your clit again. 

“Joel. Oh, Joel. Fuck- Joel I’m gonna- I’m-I’m-” But you’re already too far gone, and your orgasm hits you like a freight train. You lurch forward, belly pressing to his forehead, as your climax nearly snaps you in two. You cry out, a loud, animalistic noise you’re not very proud of, and you feel your clit swollen and throbbing, feel the slickness sliding down your folds and painting his face. 

Joel hums against your cunt, grateful, as though your orgasm was some divine blessing thrust upon him. Your hips slowly grind against him, and he lets you drag your clit up and down his extended tongue. Your hand is tight over his, where it rests on your ass, fingers laced- neither of you remember when that happened, and despite what just happened, it almost feels too intimate. But neither of you pull away. 

“That’s it, ride it out baby. Drown me in it. Let this old man die happy with your sweet little cunt smotherin’ my face.” 

You snort, slapping the back of his head, and slowly pull away, thighs aching and shaking, cunt pulsing and wet and thoroughly his. You collapse back against the couch, legs tangled with his, and throw an arm over your eyes, groaning out softly. 

“Joel.” You whisper, and he knows the weight that one little word carries. A warning. A what the fuck did we just do? A line neither of you can ever come back after crossing. 

He grunts in response. “I know.” He murmurs. His hand gently finds your knee, his thumb tracing a circle against the bone, and you sit up slow. Right now, that’s all he can say. With your cum still lingering on his tongue and your scent soaking through his facial hair, Joel can’t think much better than those two little words. 

Your eyes flick to the bulge that’s thick and tenting behind his thin gray sweats, then up to his. He follows your trail of sight before snorting a bit. “That’s between me and God. Don’t you worry ‘bout that.” 

Your eyes roll on their own accord, and Joel grins, rubbing his soaked beard. There’s another long moment of silence, but it isn’t awkward. It’s just charged. He props himself upright with a grunt, before his eyes meet your own. “Hungry?”

“Starved.” You admit. 

Joel stands, and extends his hand for you- ever the gentleman- pulling you up to your feet gently. “Grilled cheese?” “You burnt it last time.” 

“Ain’t fuckin’ Paula Deen, girl.”

“No.” You admit, walking into that outdated kitchen with him. “You couldn’t be. Y’aren’t racist.” 

He chuckles, hand gently slapping your hip, and shuffles through his fridge. “Best I can do is scrambled eggs.” 

“Lay ‘em on me, old man.” 

Joel casts a glance over his shoulder. Something not shy of an Easy, girl. I’ll bend you over. Glance, and it makes you grin. When he turns around, you take the chance to admire him, eyes watching his broad back stretch behind the fabric of his sleep shirt back, the way his thick biceps flex as he reaches for a bowl- Christ on a cracker, this guy was a work of art. And your horniness was practically dripping down his throat just a few minutes ago. The thought makes you shimmy in your seat. You look down at the apex of your thighs, huffing out a bit. Easy, girl, easy. 

“If you…” Joel clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s still turned away from you, still stirring and cracking and seasoning. “You have any more bad dates, you just… you come on over to me, okay?”

You blink once. Twice. Throat suddenly dry. “I-” 

“Ain’t gotta give me nothin’.” He interjects quickly. “That’s not… I’m not some young guy trying to get his rocks off. Just… just want to take care of you.” His voice drops to a shy sort of lilt, and you nod slowly, mouth slightly agape. 

“Okay.” You finally say, extending your hand across the counter. “You got it, Miller.” Joel shakes it, and you grin like a fool. 

“Just… don’t tell your real daddy.” He warns, and you both break out into a fit of giggles. 

“Deal.” You say softly, smiling at his back as he turns to crack a few eggs into a skillet set one knob too high. 

That night, you leave your panties on the doorhandle of his house, a thank you note of sorts, before driving back home with a smile on your mouth, and a dull ache between your thighs.

Across the horizon, you heard a familiar cowboy whooping. The hooves of a thorough bred horse, the clanking of dinnerware drifting onto the porch through the kitchen, the rustling of cicadas and the July breeze shaking through the treeline. 

Summer in Texas. 

You felt a bead of sweat roll down your back. The breeze rustled the skirt of your red sundress. A cricket hopped on your knee, gave you a look, and hopped off, a small, unspoken moment that made your stomach twist with something. 

Something like guilt. 

“Come on, then!” You heard a rough, familiar voice calling towards you. “Asked if you could meet her!” You look up from your cup of lemonade. You had been watching a fly swim through the butter color drink, watched it land and drown itself, like some odd act of insect driven martyrdom you’d never quite understand. Your eyes met his. Joel. Your cowboy. Your old man. Your awful, terrible, disgusting secret. 

Still, you slowly stood, walking towards the fenceline where he leaned against it, a sweet grin on his lips, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He wore sun bleached denim, a red flannel that matched the red of your dress- by coincidence, not by design. And that hat. God, you dreamed of that hat. Didn’t you? Dreamed of a nail in your home where he hung that hat, dreamed of wearing it while riding him, dreamed of holding it while he dusted off his boots before stepping inside. 

Joel was too handsome for his own good, too electric, too… everything. 

And you hated how it affected you so. “I’m coming, cowboy!” You call, walking towards the fence. “But I don’t want to get my feet dirty. Wearing a pair of-” As you lean towards him, he scoops you up. Thoughtlessly. Wordlessly. Doesn’t matter how much you weigh. Joel was strong the way old cowboys were; Thick and sturdy like an oak tree, like a storm, like a mountain. 

Unmovable. Unshakeable. Undefeatable. 

“Joel!” You chastise him, albeit weakly. “We can’t. I-” “Just bein’ a gentleman.” He murmured, eyes flicking to you. “Can’t have my girl’s feet gettin’ dirty.” “Your girl.” You snort. The bite in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed, you can tell by the way his arms flex, hold you tighter, fingers dig just a bit more gently into your thighs. 

Joel walks slow, with purpose, until you reach the barn, and you can hear it- that sweet bleating. When he sets you down on the hay, you see her: a baby goat, freshly born, being licked by its mama. Your heart tightens. 

“She’s perfect!” You exclaim soft, kneeling down to run your fingers against her fur. 

It bleats once, twice, rests its forehead against your palm. 

Joel chuckles, ashes his cigarette against the barn door and puts the butt in his flannel pocket. “Can’t smoke ‘round babies.” He explains with a chuckle, and he kneels down beside you, fingers running down the little creature’s spine. “Came around three AM. Mama woke me up with her bleating. Came down just in time.” 

You nod, smiling, head cocked as you stare at this little piece of life, belly tight. 

“Pretty little thing.” 

Joel nods in simple agreement. “Like you.” He murmurs, brow furrowed, his eyes quickly glancing at you. Christ. You love his eyes, always have. Soil rich, fresh and earthy like fertile dirt tilled after a rain, handsome and deep and always knowing, always seeing, always wondering. You wonder what he thinks about. Does he think about you? Does he crave you when you’re not around? Does he think of the way you feel when his wife straddles him after a long day? You feel your vision prick, white hot, just once. Your jaw works, clenching briefly. His wife. Inside with your mama, cooking dinner for everyone. Fresh corn, brisket, green beans- classic Southern cooking made with a loving heart and steady hands. 

You turn to look at Joel. You want to yell at him, want to ask him why he started fucking you, you want to get angry at your father for having you help his best buddy out this summer, you want to scream at the sky and kick dirt and hold that baby goat in an attempt to forget about everything and nothing and anything in between those two awful, heavy words. 

But all you do is reach out, thoughtless, brush one of his curls behind his ears. He’s been letting it grow out. Started doing it when you would pull on it, though he’d never admit it was for you. 

A little smile spreads across your mouth. You hate yourself for how easy it is to be sweet on him, hate yourself for the inevitable red string binding you together, dragging you close when all you wanna do is turn away and run somewhere far, far, far across the country, somewhere that’s fresh out of their Joel stock. 

And you speak. Jesus, you always speak, always go soft and pliant and stupid when it comes to him. “Gray’s coming in real handsome.” You murmur, thumb gently brushing over a silver streak near his temple. You smile, nod once, and slowly rise to your legs, hay sticking hot and sweaty to your knee caps. “Old looks real nice on you.” You murmur. 

Why do you keep opening your mouth? Why do you keep doing this to yourself? You’re addicted to him, and it pisses you clean off. 

You feel another bead of sweat slide down your back. Joel brushes it away with his knuckle without speaking, and it makes you want to cry. 

“Think so?” Joel hums, pleased with himself, and as he stands to his full height you feel his back creak, his knees pop. 

Leaning against the barn door, you watch the first stars slowly scatter across the sky. It makes you smile. “Ever wonder what clouds taste like?” You suddenly say, your brows knitting together as you run your hands down, smoothing your skirt. Joel leans behind you. His hand drags down the curve of your waist, and you lean into his touch. 

“Joel…” You warn, feeling his palm rough and steady and hot against your thigh. He inches the sundress up, gently pressing his mouth to your neck. 

“No.” He finally hums out. “No, never cared how clouds tasted, or… what they might taste like. Ain’t my style.” He presses his bearded cheek to the curve of your shoulder, inhaling deep. Pear, vanilla, bergamot, something that’s unmistakably you. Something unique and sweet that always drives him wild. 

His middle finger brushes against the hem of your panties. The white ones with the little bow that he loves, that he nearly ripped right in half a couple weeks ago after a long day of tilling the land, when his hands were shaking and his eyes were dark, and he was begging for you. 

Open up, baby. He had said, voice deep, reverent, eyes full of worship. Let daddy have a taste. Need you so bad. It was awfully hot today, need somethin’ sweet to cool me off. 

Now, with the summer heat steadily cooling into a nice evening breeze, his words echoed in your mind. 

“Joel…” You whisper again, voice low, warning, yet you lean back into his touch, head rolling against his shoulder. Small hands, soft and sweet, find his wrist, gently tightening around it as he moves his palm up and down your belly, fingers brushing the wetness that sticks to your panties. 

“Already?” He coos sweet, feeling that heat as he slides his middle finger through your folds, collecting that slick. “Just for me, honey girl?” You’re chewing on your bottom lip. “We can’t.” You whisper. “Family… inside. We- it’s-” “Shh, baby. You trust me?” He asks soft, sweet, lips tingling against that spot where he can feel your pulse throb beneath his kisses. 

“More than anything.” “Good girl.” He pushes your underwear to the side, bends you over a bale of hay, and sinks two fingers deep into your cunt. “Soppin’ for me, baby.” He chides, teeth dragging down your shoulder. 

“Sorry.” You apologize bashfully, feeling your face hot with embarrassment. 

“Ain’t a thing in the world you need to be sorry about. Not you.” And you hate how firm his words are. Like he means it, and even worse- he believes it. 

Your ass is pressed against his hips as he sinks his digits deep, hooking them, feeling that spongy spot he’s memorized, the same spot he’s used to make you scream his name loud enough the cow’s start coming home. 

“Wanna taste you.” “Here?!” Joel chuckles, dropping to his knees in the barn. He spreads your knees, nosing you from behind, smelling, feeling, letting you wash over him like a tide pulling at the shore. 

“No, baby. In the kitchen.” There’s a sarcastic tug to his vowels that makes you roll your eyes, his teeth nipping at the inside of your thigh, hard enough to make you yelp, but soft enough to make you moan afterwards. 

“Enough of that sass, old man.” You mumble, fingers tight in the hay. 

The sharp little strands poke into your skin, and for a moment you allow yourself to relish the pain, allow yourself to be okay with it, to feel something other than his tongue slow, slow, slowly circling your clit, already swollen and throbbing for him, for that god damned cowboy you can’t seem to get enough of. That stinging bite against your fingertips… that’s what you deserve, right? Something about God, something about divine intervention, something about guilt and hell and catching on fire if you ever step into a church. Running around with him like you’re two teenagers in love, when you’ve got a dad who trusts you and him to do the right thing, and a wife who thinks he hung the moon. 

Your stomach lurches at the thought, and you grab a fistful of hay tight, allowing it to scratch against your skin. One little piece wedges into your balm, and you see a line of crimson slowly dribble, flesh broken open like a warning, like a peace offering, like a guilty conscience. 

Still, you reach around, fingers finding those curls. You can smell your arousal, feel the way his tongue sinks into your folds, feel the way his hands bring you back and forth, letting you fuck his mouth like he’s twenty years younger and has bones that don’t ache everytime he wakes up in the morning. He moans, you feel it vibrate straight through your middle, his beard itching your skin as he rocks you back and forth, that handsome nose brushing against your clit. 

Joel pulls away for a moment, replaces his tongue with your finger, presses a sweet, slow, reverent kiss to the little mole that’s on your asscheek, teeth sinking into your soft flesh with a grin you know is full of arrogance. 

“You’re my girl. Ain’t’cha, baby?” And you can hear that subtle little plea to his voice, like he needs to hear you say it, just as bad as you need it. 

“Yeah, Joel.” You breathe out, whimpering when his thumb flicks over your clit. “Yeah, Joel. I’m yours. I’m your girl.” “Mhm. Yeah, baby. You are. My honey girl.” He murmurs, resting his cheek against your thigh, watching the way your tight pussy flutters around his fingers, watching the way your slick drips down to his wrist, like a broken faucet he’ll never try and fix.

“My sweet thing.” A kiss to your cunt from behind. “My baby.” A kiss to your clit. 

“My angel.” A bite to your thigh. 

“My wife.” A bite to your ass. And you both pretend you don’t hear that last one, both pretend it was something else, a different word that got  jumbled up through the air on the way to your ears, a trick of the light, a noise that didn’t have any meaning. 

But he takes note, how your fingers curl tighter in his hair, how you draw him closer to your slick pussy, how your toes tighten in your shoes you would hate to get dirty. 

Joel fingers you deeper, tilting his head so his lips are wrapped around your clit, and he sucks like a man searching for water in the desert, like all the secrets to his life and how to love and how to live and how to be a better man lie within your cunt. And, shit, maybe they fuckin’ do. 

“Joel. Fuck, Joel. I’m gonna- I’m-”

He chuckles. A cocky little noise that makes your knees buckle. His palms flatten on the back of your thighs, and he holds you up, sturdy, allowing your orgasm to rip through you, holding your weight. Because that’s what Joel does. He holds you up when things get shaky. He takes care of you. He loves on you, sweet and stable and sturdy. And maybe, for now, that’s enough to keep you two together, maybe now, that’s enough. Maybe this is enough. Maybe sneaking around barns and pretending not to care and calling each other every name underneath the sun while ignoring that awful feeling iin your belly is enough. Right? 

Right. 

An unspoken pact. 

His ears perk at your pretty noises, soft little sobs and whimpers, a hymn meant just for him, a homily that only you know how to preach, the only damn sermon that’s ever moved him. You’re the only thing that’s ever moved him. God, Jesus, the Universe, how the clouds taste- he didn’t give a fuck. Never had. But you? He’d crawl on hands and knees, forty days and forty nights, build you an arc, nail himself to a cross, drink the blood and eat the body, all that religious shit he never gave in to- he would do it all for you.

 ‘Cause of course he could. 

Because Joel Miller loved you. And you loved Joel Miller. And it was the worst thing that had ever happened to either of you, and it weighed heavy like rocks tied to a witch in the water, like cement boots and gilded chains, like a prison of your own making.

You’re still slumped over the hay when you hear his belt buckle clang, that familiar rustle of denim as he slides out his cock, long and thick and aching for you, only ever you. He pushes in, familiar, hands wrapping around your front, cheek pressed to your shoulder blade, and he sinks so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. “My sweet baby.” Joel whispers, nuzzling against you. God, you hated when he got like this. All sweet and tender and domestic. Like you stood before the eyes of god and man in a pure little chapel, like he pushed your veil back and kissed your nose, like you wrote vows and slow danced to some old Cash song and cut a piece of cake that’s still in your freezer, waiting for your anniversary. You hated it. Because it hurt. Because it wasn’t true. Because it wasn’t right. And still, your back arched slightly, your walls tightened around him, and you reached behind to grasp at his waist, pulling him impossibly close. 

“Yours.” You whisper, and he gently catches your wrist. 

You can hear the furrow of his brows when he speaks. “You’re bleedin’.” “Just the hay.” 

He slowly brings your palm back to his mouth, lips kissing the blood away, tongue flattening against the tiny scratch, soothing it with a gentle lick that makes you shudder. “Fuck.” You murmur, chewing on the inside of your cheek as he holds that same palm to his cheek, hips rutting against you, slow and deep and steady, the kind of fuck only old, handsome men know how to give. 

“That’s it, baby. Takin’ me so good.” He purrs, grinning lazy against your neck. “Feel okay? You okay?” And this time, his voice is softer. 

“Yeah.” You breathe through your teeth, eyes heavy lidded, and you moan soft, feeling the thick tip of his aching cock press deep into you, stretching you out, going places no man had ever been before, places no man would probably ever go. Not after Joel. Not after your cowboy. 

“Yeah?” He parrots back, and you feel that cocky little grin. It always makes you giggle. 

“Yeah.” You say again, like you’re both having an entire conversation with only one word. “Feels real nice, real good….” A beat. A smirk. “You’ve always been sweet on me.” You tease, turning to meet his mouth with yours. A soft, deep kiss, the kind that makes his fingers tremor against your skin as he pulls you flush back against him. 

You feel a bead of sweat roll down your back. Joel kisses it away. 

“Joel.” You whimper, and your face is contorted so tight, someone might mistake it for pain. And, maybe in a way, it was pain. 

“Honey girl…. What, baby? Hmm? Let daddy take care of you.” He’s running a soothing palm up and down your back, his cock deep and sweet inside of you, and you feel his forehead dragging across the skin of your back, feel the warmth and grit and roughness of him against you. 

He’s always stretched you impossibly wide, he’s got the prettiest cock you’ve ever seen, and he knows how to use it, knows how to make you come undone, knows how to make your toes curl and your fingers reach and your breath catch. 

You hate it. You love it. 

You hate him. You love him. 

“Feel that, baby? Feel me?” “Mhmmm…” Your voice trails off, forehead resting against the haybale as he drills deeper, skin on skin, sweat mingling with sweat, fingers digging so tight into your thighs you swear you’ll be bruised, and that nasty, animalistic part of you hopes you bruise, hopes you can never, for as long as you live, shake Joel Miller off of you. “Feels real good.” Joel reaches around, his middle finger finding your sensitive clit, and you feel yourself twitch at the touch, still aching from your previous orgasm. Joel feels it. Presses a line of soothing kisses to your shoulder. “That’s it, girl. Let me take care of you. That’s all I want. You know that, right? Just want to take care of you.” But there’s an edge to his voice. And, fuck, you know exactly what he means. 

Joel doesn’t just mean sex. 

No, of course not- he means it all. 

He wants to pull your chair out for you at the dining table, wants to lean against doorframes and watch you stir lemonade, wants to taste every baked good you try your hand at, wants to let you fuss over his curls and his skin and his nails after every shower, pretend he don’t like those fancy face masks, but asks you if you bought some more after every trip to Ulta. 

He wants to shop with you for home decor you don’t need, he wants to push your cart and carry every bag and fix you up a house that never has a leaky shower head or crooked porch or a swing that aches with rusted metal, just for you. He wants to handfeed banana bread and yellow cake to you and bring you coffee every morning, wants to hang his hat in a shared room and put you to sleep and wake you up every single day with his tongue, his cock, his fingers, his breath. 

And if he were a younger man? If he had never fucked it all up when he was a twenty year old boy, if he had never married that woman who’s currently baking cookies in the kitchen? God. Dear God. There wouldn’t be a force strong enough or a hell mean enough to rip him from your grasp, to take you from his.  

And the worst part? He was already connected to you. Already glued to you, souls entwined, and that nagging red string of fate had already molded your fingers together, already gotten in his hair and yours, already wrapped around the cage of your ribs and brought you so tight together, neither of you knew where the other began or ended. 

That’s the worst part. The real part. The awful, terrible, guilty part. 

Despite it all, the guilt, the fear, the nastiness of your union, he still spills deep inside you, still feels you pulse with your second orgasm as you grind and whine beneath him, as you reach and grab his flannel, as you moan his name again and again, each syllable prettier than the last. He still cleans you up with his bandana, like he always does, still stuffs it in his pocket to remind himself of you, still kisses the back of your neck and soothes out your hair. 

You wonder how he’d feel coming up behind you, your hands soapy with dishwater, how his lips would feel on your neck, uninhibited and free of guilt. Wonder if your wedding bands would be the same metal. You don’t let the thought linger for too long. You never do. When you turn around to face him, chest to chest, legs shaking, his eyes are full of a fondness that scares you, lips curled in that lazy sort of grin that only a man in love can make. 

“There she is.” He whispers, nose rubbing against your cheek as he kisses your jaw. “My sweet girl. My honey. My baby.” You wrap your arms around him, bodies sticky with summer heat, like two popsicles melting in the summer heat, and you both pretend for a moment that you don’t hear his wife calling you in for dinner. 

“C’mon, you crazy kids!” She calls out through the yard, your bodies hidden behind the barn frame. “Got a real nice spread tonight!”

“Better get in.” Joel whispers. “Wouldn’t want to upset the missus.” His eyes are sad. So are yours. “Yeah.” You whisper, swallowing thick, throat working against a lump of pure dismay that you feel straight through your whole body. 

“Yeah.” He whispers, and when you turn to walk towards the house, his knuckle swipes up another bead of sweat sliding down your back. 

You look over your shoulder, let your eyes linger on the newborn goat in the pin, let your gaze slowly move to your cowboys, and you smile soft, sweet, a tiny little thing meant only for him. And when you reach the muddy line of the yard, he scoops you back up, dirtying up his boots so you don’t have to. His wife watches, laughing as he does it. “Ain’t he just a gentleman!” She calls out, waving you all forward. You can’t even bring yourself to smile. You just stare up at him, eyes heavy with everything that’s happened and everything that will never happen, and you both swear you can feel the thrumming of your heart. “Joel?” You whisper soft, quiet. “Hmm?” His jaw is set, eyes watching the porch as he steps through the fence gate. 

“I love you.” And you pretend you didn’t say it, pretend it was a trick of the wind, and Joel pretends he didn’t hear it, either, he just nods once. 

“Go inside, honey girl.” He whispers, lips brushing your ear as he slowly sets you down. “Ladies eat first.” And when you linger in the kitchen, you pretend to not see the way she kisses him, pretend to not see the way his palms linger on his hips, pretend to not notice the way your thighs still throb and ache from his fingertips. 

You see that glass of lemonade from earlier, the fly floating, right between the middle of their bodies as she fusses over him, wipes something off his nose, picks a piece of hay from his hair. 

It’s okay. It always is. 

You sit at that dinner table with a well rehearsed smile, hearing Johnny Cash crooning over the kitchen radio. 

Then I headed down the street, 

And somewhere far away, a lonely bell was ringin’, 

And it echoed through the canyons

Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday. 

And you pretend not to hear the beat of his boots at the front door, pretend not to hear the whoosh of her apron as she takes it off, slapping his chest because he said something dirty. When your eyes meet, you don’t say anything, you just slowly fork a piece of meat onto your plate. 

Home from college, a close family friend offered you substantial pay if you helped him out on his ranch. He had no help, was fifty-six years old, and found himself awfully lonesome. Sure, you weren’t much of a cowgirl- but for your dad’s best friend Joel Miller, you’d be anything he wanted you to be.

You suppose that’s how you got into this situation.

Skirt hiked up to your thighs, panties hanging off your ankle, and his cock buried deep inside your wet, impolite pussy.

“She’s takin’ me so good, ain’t she sugar? Always so good for your daddy.” His teeth sunk into your shoulder, fingertips grasping greedily at the dimpled skin of your ass. Joel was panting like a dog, crushed by the weight of your chest, your skin sticking together like fly traps.

Every so often, a gentle breeze would rummage through the windows and rustle about on the sheets of his bed, but it wasn’t enough to satiate the fire burning hot between your bodies.

Drool was dribbling at the corner of your cherry red lips, thick with the gloss that you had forgotten you applied. You were too concentrated on bouncing on his length, drunk on the feeling of his swollen tip melting into your g-spot with every grind and thrust of his jutting hips.

Your neck fell back, and his umber eyes seared holes into the soft skin, wet with a sheen of shining sweat. As Joel dragged his tongue along the edge of your jaw, his hand holding your chin in place, your thighs clenched around his own, the grip you had on his shoulders tightening at his gentle assault.

He was everything to you in this moment. You were breathing him in, taking him in, loving him in.

How could you not?

“Joel.” You begged.

“What is it, darlin’? Tell me what’s on your mind.” His voice was nothing but a coo, teasing in a way that barely got under your skin, but managed to just enough so that it left you craving more.

"Please, Joel."

You weren't too sure what you were asking for, what you needed most in this moment. What you craved was something you couldn't have. You felt it rumbling and tumbling in the confines of your stomach, that cloak of guilt slowly creeping up from behind you, but you never let it reach your face, never let it linger on your tongue.

Hush. Hush.

Focus on him. On this lovin' that he's giving you.

Lovin'? You could have laughed. This wasn’t love. This was lust. An illicit affair that neither of you ever put much thought into, because thinking lead to guilt.

And right now, with his balls slapping against your ass and his cock buried eight heavenly inches deep inside your leaking cunt, guilt was the last thing you wanted to feel. So instead you focused on the way his hot breath felt fanning across your sweat covered chest, focused on the way his finger tips felt digging deep into your skin, so deep it felt as though just a smidgen harder and his blunt nails would cause blood to spill.

His teeth were clamped around your neck like he was a hungry wolf in the pen and you were the prettiest sacrificial lamb, a dangerous mark forming beneath your ear from where he suckled.

You could feel that string.

That impossibly tight string that bound you two together, physically, mentally- in every way possible. That red line of fate that somehow tangled around your bodies and forced you together. If you had a pair of scissors, you wouldn't even be able to cut it, your hand wouldn't allow. There was something enigmatic about the cowboy Joel Miller that drew you in, something brewing beneath the surface that you could never turn away from.

His gravelly voice, low and Southern, snapped you from your thoughts.

"Please what, baby? Use your words. Lemme hear ya." He grunted like an animal as he grasped hold of your ass, bouncing you harder on his rigid cock, the sounds of your bodies loud against the walls of the room.

"P-Please. Wanna cum. Wanna-wanna feel you."

"Ain't feelin' me enough, girl?" He chuckled, nudging his face between the valley of your breasts. Joel's voice was muffled as he sucked on your nipples, allowing them to harden beneath his teeth in a way that made you shiver. "Alright then."

With ease he lifted you off, and you watched his sweaty biceps shine beneath the steady coming sunshine. Years of work beneath the blazing Texas heat, loading and unloading hay bales, wrangling cattle and fitting horses for new shoes made him impossibly strong. Strong in that cowboy sort of way, where his tummy was soft from hundreds of nights of homecooked Southern meals, and his thighs where thick and always so pretty looking behind worn denim. Strong in the good sort of way, strong in the way hard working men with good manners always are.

He tossed you on the bed, bending your legs against your chest as he mounted you, filling you impossibly deep once again. He could feel you tight around him like a vice, beckoning him further in, warm and soft against his throbbing cock. The noise of your wetness rang through his ears like church bells, and there was something deeply intoxicating about the knowledge that he was the one who made you come undone like this, that he was the one making your body shake and shiver and leak for him.

It was the best thing Joel Miller had ever felt before, and you were the prettiest thing he had ever laid eyes on.

His chocolate colored eyes, honeyed by the hazy mid afternoon glow, stared down into yours, soft yet demanding. A sentence twitched on his lips, words he would never be able to get out, affection he would never be able to voice. Talking about things, really talking about things, was not how Joel operated.

So instead, rather than communicating with you the way an old, grizzled man should have learned to do by his big age, he fucked you. He filled you up with him cum and would hum she's so fuckin' pretty, drippin' with me, or he'd take you by the throat, let you taste his tongue and his spit, let your teeth clash against one another as you bounced yourself on his cock. He would wipe you up with the bandana he always wore around his neck, would let you sip on his black coffee while you came back down to reality, even though you always made the same face with your nose scrunched every time you tasted the bitterness.

Those little moments, those little pockets of normality, domesticity, the little sparks of something that felt dangerously close to a relationship, were how he told you his true feelings.

You were looking up at him now, mouth gaping, eyes wide and glossed over with tears of pleasure as he rammed his leaking tip against those soft, spongy parts that made you whimper and whine for him. Your dress was wrinkled now, bunched up against your waist, and your nails were dragging so hard down the expanse of his button down you were sure you'd tear it.

"Come on, darlin'. Come on. You're takin him so well for me. That feel good, don't it? Daddy's cock." He purred his words, equal parts arrogance and filth, reaching down between your legs. The rough pad of his thumb found your clit, swollen and throbbing, begging for his attention. "Christ woman," Joel groaned, "you're going to be the death of me."

You arched your back off the bed, grasping hold of his thick neck, and shook your head. "Don't die on me just yet, Cowboy. Not done with you."

"Yes ma'am." He was more than happy to comply with your request.

You could feel your pussy contracting even tighter against him, you could feel your orgasm steadily brewing in the pits of your belly, and you knew it was going to be a loud one.

Joel's skin on yours was burning, sweat dripping down your bodies, melting your chests together in a tangled heap of limbs and sex.

"Look up at me. Look." Joel grabbed your chin, forcing your eyes on his. "Want to see how pretty your eyes roll when you soak this cock."

Your breath caught in your throat, and you buried your fingers in the strands of hair by the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until his mouth met yours for a kiss.

"Prettiest damn woman I've ever known. Y'know that? You're jus' a pretty little thing. Best fuckin' pussy in Texas, and it's all mine."

"Just Texas?" You moaned through a breathy laugh, his thumb still brushing across your clit. Soon, you were going to snap. You could feel it running through you like a freight train.

Joel nipped your shoulder, his laugh getting lost in your hair. "The whole world, darlin'."

You wanted to smile, but your orgasm ripped through you out of the blue. You felt your cum soak Joel straight through, felt your clit twitch beneath his thumb, your little bundle of nerves becoming sensitive beneath his tender assault, thighs shaking and throat restricting as your eyes rolled into the back of your head.

You wanted to speak, wanted to tell him how good it felt, how good he was fucking you, wanted to cry his name for the whole world to hear- but no words could form. Not with an orgasm that good.

Joel felt you squeezing around him, and his grunts and moans- more animalistic than human- told you he was close.

"God damn, girl." His teeth were gritted now, and he propped himself up on his hands to watch himself disappear inside of you. In and out, in and out. Your pussy was creamy, swollen, pulsating against him from all the pleasure he was giving you, and he couldn't hold on much longer.

Joel grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling you towards his chest so you were watching with him, watching the way he wrecked you, split you in two, reduced you to a whimpering slut just for him.

"See that? You've made a fuckin' mess on me."

"Sorry daddy." You moaned out, and if Joel didn't know any better, he would have thought your words were laced full of pride.

You did that to him. You.

Joels hips were rutting hard into yours now, fast and unsteady, a rushed mess of skin on skin as he felt his cock leaking, twitching with his oncoming climax. When he finally came undone, he snarled your name like a hungry dog, growling into your hair like a madman as he shot rope after rope of cum deep within you.

You felt him deep, felt his cum leaking against your walls as he slowly rolled beside you, his fingers dipping down into your pussy to push his dribbling spend back inside of you.

You turned to look at him, and in a moment of tenderness, you gently brushed the stray strands of curls out of his forehead, your fingers lingering against the deep set crows feet beside his honeyed eyes. They sparkled in the golden light, their umber hue set aflame by that pretty summer shine.

"Did you have a nice lunch break, Cowboy?" You words were soft. Too soft for the nature of your relationship. Neither of you seemed to mind.

The air was quiet now. The sun was still filtering in through the open window, those sheer curtains still billowing in the wind. The faint mooing of cattle could be heard, the soft tweet of a song bird, the bark of a herding dog. The noise of your bodies grinding, your skin slapping, had now all but ceased, and the little hum and sounds of both nature and domesticity filtered in and out the sunny room.

Joel reached for your hand, bringing the tips of your fingers to his mouth. His lips were dry and cracked against your skin, and the stubble of his graying beard pricked into your knuckles. It caused a smile to tilt at the corner of your messy lips.

"Best kind of lunch break." He conceded, untying the bandana around his neck. He leaned forward, softly wiping at your damp thighs, your belly, your cunt- drying you off from your previous rendezvous, before shooting you a wink and tying it back around his neck. When he worked late into the evening, he wanted to smell you. A little nudge to end the day on a high note, to end the day quickly- so he could see you in the morning and start it all from scratch.

He stood up with a groan, the kind of groan old men always let out when standing from their recliners or getting up out of bed in the morning, and readjusted his jeans. You always loved those jeans. The sun-kissed fade that stretched deliciously taut across his thighs, the little Levi tag on the back. They fit him perfectly, in more ways than one.

You watched Joel's fingers work the buttons of his shirt, a simple green flannel that brought out the richness of his skin, watched him slide through his belt with that big silver buckle depicting a steer, the one your father had gifted him when they graduated high school. He hadn't even had time to take off his shoes before he buried himself in your pussy, so he clicked his steel-toed boots together with a sense of finality and kissed your temple, grabbing his rope and wallet from the bedside table.

"Could you do me a favor?" He hummed, his eyes glancing at the bed. The duvet was soaked through, dirt from his boots and traces of your shared cum lingering through.

You grinned, knowing the question he was about to ask. "Already on it."

Joel watched you for a beat too long. Watched the way you looked bending over in that sundress, gathering up all the blankets and pillows to throw in the wash. Watched the way your hair became tousled in the breeze, the way it stuck to that pretty cherry color you had on your lips.

If Joel was a younger man, he would have bent you over again and fucked your brains out like his life depended on it. The thought caused something to stir in his stomach, and his cock. But he was old, and his back hurt, and he had a few dozen flocks of wandering sheep he had to wrangle back to the barn before night fell across the expansive miles of his ranch.

His eyes flicked to the clock.

3:47 PM.

She would be home anytime soon.

"And, uh, after that you can head on back. Alright?" He knew the words were a bit cold, knew they always stung right through to your heart, but what else was he supposed to do?

You nodded without looking at him, humming out a simple response. "Yeah." Your voice was barely a whisper as you pushed gently past him, making your way to the laundry room.

It wouldn't have really mattered if she showed up, to be realistic, it would have only raised a few questions. His wife knew you were working for him. But, that was the issue. You were meant to be working.

And right now, you were in a summery little dress- and doing manual labor wearing that was pretty much impossible. The first few weeks you showed up in jeans and a shirt, got your hands dirty, let the mud splatter on your face- but when things started heating up, when Joel started flirting more, looking harder, and you started pining more, yearning harder- that's when things changed.

He started letting you watch while he worked. Started telling you he didn't want you to get all gross and ruined on his farm. He would sit you on a thick fence post, talk to you while he shoveled shit, picked up hay, cleaned out pig pens, and he'd let you hold the newborn chicks and pet the piglets and play with the goats while you discussed anything and everything, laughing until your sides hurt.

It was through those little conversations, you realized how deeply attached you had grown, how the highlight of your work day was talking to him.

Then, you started showing up right after his wife would leave for work or shopping or whatever it is she did, always in those sun dresses that drove him wild. Your hair would be done, makeup all nice and pretty- both of which would just get ruined, later. You'd sit on the porch, watch him out in the field wiping the sweat from his brow, watching him unload the bed of his truck. You'd watch him pet every dog on his property, talk to his horse, feed his cows.

And halfway through, Joel would march right on up, grab your hand, and take you to the bedroom. Sometimes he wouldn't make it very far, and that old, rickety porch swing would get more action in an hour than it had ever gotten in its existence. Those breaks that were supposed to be lunch turned into something completely different, and his wife was left wondering why he ate through house and home by the time dinner was made and set on the table.

Joel followed you out of the bedroom.

He wasn't coy, or quiet, either.

The heel of his leather boots were clicking and clacking against the linoleum floors that hadn't been renovated since the 70s, ringing against the walls full of family photos, artwork, and Rodeo certificates.

"Look, you know if I could keep ya here-"

"I know, Joel." You dumped the duvet in the washer, turning it on. You turned to face him, gently resting your hand on his bicep. Thick, soft- it felt perfect against your hand, spilled out of the cup of your palm, warmed you just with a touch. You blinked the thought away. "I know. Really. It's okay."

He sighed, shaking his head. You walked out to the kitchen, grabbing the pitcher of lemonade, and the cowboy was right on your heels, following you like an obedient retriever. "No, really. If I could just-" he stumbled over his words, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I ain't good with words. You know?"

You rocked on your heels, sipping at the drink as you watched him from behind the rim of the glass, your eyes narrowed and head tilted with thought as you let him work out what it was he really wanted to tell you.

Joel sat down with a huff, his legs spread wide, thighs broad and inviting. He rested his elbows on his knees, focusing his attention on you.

He could get used to this, he figured. Watching you drink lemonade, helping you with the laundry, coming in after a long day of work to see you all pretty and waiting for him. He would spin you around to the deep voice of Johnny Cash, sing along in that stupid voice you hated just to make you giggle as he dipped you and buried his face in your chest. He would help you stir whatever pasta sauce you had had simmering all day, or he would go out back to grill you a ribeye cooked just the way you liked, then watch as you dumped way more sugar than what was needed into your nana's tried and true banana pudding recipe.

Joel could imagine it, clear as day.

If he was younger, thirty, thirty-five maybe, he would ask you to go off birth control. He'd fuck you every morning, twice in the afternoon, and twice in the evening, flip through every baby name book and buy every swaddle you would point out in town. He'd sit there, trying to figure out if Colton or Ashton was a better name for a son, hope and pray that if it were a girl, she'd get your heart and tenacity.

He'd marry you. He'd let you plan the wedding, force him into whatever tuxedo you wanted him to wear, and he'd let his stubble grow out to that length he knew you loved, let you smudge a piece of cake against the tip of his nose but refuse to do it to you and ruin your makeup- only to get you back later with something much better than icing.

Joel blinked, swallowing thickly.

He was back in the kitchen, boots resting on that god awful linoleum floor. Your lemonade was nearly finished now, and you looked at him with a mix of concern and intrigue, eyebrows furrowed together tightly.

You had never seen him like this- so lost in his own head, stuck in his thoughts.

"Joel?" Your voice was soft, a song on to his ears, and for a split moment it calmed his thoughts. You rested your hand on his shoulder, tilted your head ever so slightly so you were eye level.

"Sorry." He was almost bashful, clearing his throat as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. "I just, uh... you know."

You nodded a bit. In a weird sort of way, you understood. You knew what he meant without the words ever having to be spoken.

"I get it."

"Do you?"

"Mhm." You fingered the fabric of his shirt between your index and thumb, eyes tracing over every part of him. The curve of his strong nose, the lashes of his eyes. You wished you could wake up and trace over him every day, wish you could memorize him so deeply and know him so intimately he was forever burned into the imprint of your mind, forever tangled up in your ribs and lungs and heart, a piece of him left so deep within your body it became apart of you. "Maybe in another life, right?"

Joel's forehead creased, his top lip catching between his teeth as he let the words roll around in his head. You counted the wrinkles on his forehead, four deep set lines, and slowly moved your fingers to his temple, brushing your nail across the smile lines.

"Another life." He parroted, swallowing thickly. "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Another life, I think."

Joel stood, impossibly broad and tall, and stared down at you. There was a longing twinkle shimmering in his eyes, something deep and sad, something that he swore he would never, ever speak of. Not to you, to Tommy, to his wife- to your father.

Father.

A pang shot straight through his chest.

He let his rough palms fall to your hips, let you readjust the messed up buttons of his shirt, and he finally let himself close his eyes.

Let himself imagine a life where you did this every day, a life where you were his wife, his young, beautiful wife who everyone talked about, his young, beautiful wife that all the old men at his baseball games and football Sunday's would wonder and hum about out loud, wondering how the gruff, mean, sturdy Joel Miller ever managed to pull a sweet angel like you.

When he opened them, you were smiling up at him, and when he kissed your cherry colored lips, they tasted faintly of lemonade.

Joel smiled, his stomach twisting as you smiled back.

You gently dragged your hand down, let it rest on his soft stomach for a moment before you patted him away.

"Go on then, Cowboy. You've got some sheep to track."

He nodded, humming out, and as he turned on his heel to walk away, he wondered if you felt it too.

That string. That terrible, awful string that bound you two together, that unraveled like yarn and tripped him over his own two feet time and time again.

And when you walked into the laundry room and took the duvet to throw it in the drier, you wondered if Joel felt it too. That string. That terrible, awful string that had knitted itself within the very sinew that kept you together, that bound your wrists and imprinted deep within your bones until it left you aching.

On the drive home, you watched the sunset cast itself across the horizon. You watched the orange bleed in to the blue, watched the purple kiss of the approaching night blot itself behind the clouds. And in the distance you saw your cowboy, rope high in the air, whooping for a calf that had wandered too far away from his mamma, and the setting sun reflected against the faded leather of his hat, hit against the metal side of your car, and for a moment you could smell him. The smell of pine shavings, tooth paste, tobacco. It lingered in your nostrils no matter where you went.

Johnny Cash was crooning to you from the radio.

But your people have always been my people, And you have always gone wherever I go. And when it's all over, I hope we will go together I don't want you to be alone, you know.

You caught one last glance of Joel from your rearview mirror, off his horse and petting the scared calf, and a soft smile spread across your face, despite that deep gnawing that rested beneath the cavity of your chest.