#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Joel’s house is modest, outdated, old.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. 

July in Texas meant the kind of heat that makes the devil himself sweat, and the kind of family gatherings that make you wish he'd drag you back to hell with him.

The front porch of grandma and grandpa's old home sagged, tired of carrying generational secrets and trauma, its broken wood planks littered with cigarette butts and broken beer bottlers. Grandma June's cross-stitched Jesus watched over the house from the kitchen wall, thick and smudged by the steam of collard greens and cast iron grease.

The tea was sweet enough to make your molars ache, the gossip between your aunts somehow even sweeter. They wore their linen dresses and bickered like fighting crows over potato salad, their unruly kids screaming around the pool like a baptism gone wrong. Somewhere in the distance, a bloodhound barked loud and shrill, and somewhere even closer, Uncle Joel lit an American Spirit like he was trying to smoke out an ache from his chest.

You hadn't meant to look at him like that.

Well, not at first.

He wasn't supposed to be the one. It should've been Tommy- your mamma's brand new, shiny second husband, all clean smiles and thick forearms. But Tommy never looked at you the way his brother Joel did, like you were temptation dressed in a pair of cutoffs, like you were his Eve and he was getting real sick of apples.

He was the oldest brother, Joel. The grizzled one. The one with broad shoulders that blocked out the sun and rough hands that looked like they could rip Bibles in half.

He came in reeking of sweat, smoke, and the kind of loneliness that settles deep into a man's bones after too many years of pretending he doesn't need anybody or anything.

It was a tale as old as time. You should have been scared of him.

Instead, you sucked the melted ice cream off your fingers, looking at him from behind a pair of long fake eyelashes, cherry red lips stretched into a pretty, perfect smile. "Hi, Uncle Joel."

He flinched the first time you ever called him that.

Good.

You shouldn't have enjoyed it. The way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched and nostrils flared. But you did. And you would continue to enjoy it.

The first time you saw Joel- really saw him- was on the third day of that godforsaken family reunion, right as the sun bled out over the backyard and turned the skies to bruised peaches and dying lilacs. You'd come out of the sunroom for more sweet tea, barefoot on cracked concrete as a symphony of cicadas beckoned you forth, the hem of your sundress- same color as Joel's shirt- clinging damp against your sticky sweet thighs.

He was by the smoker, beer in hand, sweat darkening the collar of his flannel even though it was too hot for sleeves.

Joel was watching you. There was no attempt to hide it. Just a dark, sleezy pair of eyes following you, a hawk zeroing in on its prey, like you were nothing more than a rabbit trying to scurry away in time.

There was a raw, quiet sort of hunger, and you watched his jaw tick ever so slightly as he drank you in, as though he was memorizing every step you took in case the good Lord gave him one more chance to turn his back on you, on the taboo hunger that stirred deep in his belly.

"You shouldn't be wearin' that around me." His voice was a mutter, half to himself, as though he were conversing with a pesky little devil that had perched itself on his shoulder.

"Shouldn't be looking then." You quipped back.

There was a pause.

That same muscle ticked in his jaw.

Joel turned around and walked off with a huff, as though you had slapped him clean across the face.

You couldn't help but smile into your tea.

The next night, it stormed.

Texas thunderstorms never knocked politely. They rattled the windows like judgement day.

You watched from the dining room as the rain spilled down the glass, almost everyone else tucked in to bed for the night. You could hear over the lighting your grandma muttering prayers. Cousins were passed out on couches, your mother deep into a bottle of wine with Tommy in the sunroom, both sure no one else would be awake to hear them giggling.

It was quiet. The eerie kind of quiet the seeped into the walls of old Texas homes, the kind of quiet that only ever accompanied lonely nights like this.

Joel stood on the porch, the lightning carving out his silhouette into the screen door every few seconds, painted across the house like a ghost hungry for something other than vengeance.

You found him like that. Smoking, brooding, thinking some dark, unholy thoughts that you craved to learn for yourself.

"Can't sleep?" He finally asked, voice full of gravel. His back was to you, but he could sense you, he could smell you.

You didn't answer. What was there to ever say? You stepped out into the night air, rain cooling your skin, and leaned against the porch rail. The white cotton of your nightdress stuck to your back. No bra. No panties. Nothing.

Joel noticed.

Of course he did. He always noticed you.

"You walk around like that on purpose?" Joel inhaled a thick line of cigarette smoke, an eyebrow raised as he watched the old dirt road begin to turn in to mud.

"Would it matter if I did?"

The porch light flickered as the hum of the moths grew louder, the rain only darkening the sky even more.

"You're playin' a dangerous game, baby." His words sent a shiver right down your spine and straight between your legs, your thighs clenching at the hate that peppered his voice, the annoyance. It only made you want him more.

You tilted your head up at him. The same devil that plagued him with all those nasty thoughts danced behind your eyes.

"I was raised in a house full of liars and preachers, Joel. Danger is a game I know well."

Joel snorted out a response, turning back to the horizon.

You stayed quiet, listening to the hiss of rain and the gentle smolder of his cigarette, watching the way the smoke curled around his knuckles, hazy and Baroque. He didn't look at you, but you knew he saw everything- how the thin cotton clung to your skin, how your thighs rubbed together each time he lifted his smoke to his lips, how you licked the expanse of your plush lips like a girl who didn't know any better.

But you did. And he knew you did.

"Why're you always lookin' at me like that?" Joel's voice was low and rough, the words scraping their way out of his tobacco singed throat.

You shrugged. "Cause you always look back."

Oh. Oh. Now that got him.

Joel flicked the cigarette into the muddy yard with a sharp little motion that made your lips twitch, his jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard his teeth grinding down like stone on stone.

Then he stood. He walked over. Too close. Close enough to feel his heart thrumming, close enough to breathe in that second hand smoke that always lingered around him like an aura.

The wood of the porch creaked beneath his worn leather boots as he boxed you in- one hand on the rail behind you, the other ghosting down your side, not touching, not really, but just enough to burn you like the sinner you were.

"You ain't got a fuckin' idea what you're doin'." Joel's voice was a warning, like smoke and sin, and it hit you like a brick.

"I think I do." Your words were more of a moan than a whisper.

"Is that right?"

You didn't break eye contact. You couldn't. You wanted him to feel it, all of it. That heavy thrum beneath your skin, that ugly, ugly craving, that part of you that yearned to be ruined by his hands, and his alone.

Before you knew it, that very same hand was wrapped around your throat.

Not tight- just testing. His fingers, calloused and thick, resting there like a cautionary tale you would never quite learn.

"Say the word. I'll stop."

"You won't."

"You don't know me, honey."

"Maybe not. But I know what you're thinking when you look at me like that." He felt your pulse against his palm, erratic and wild, hungry for more.

There was silence for a moment that felt too long, thunder rolling low in the back like the ground itself was growling, a desperate animal lurking and watching you two dance a dangerous tango.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet. It was messy and hungry and depraved, teeth scraping lips, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth like he was starving and you were the only thing on his dinner table. Like he'd held back for too long and hated himself for it.

And God, of course you kissed him back.

You moaned into it, melting into the depths of his chest, his cheap cologne and aftershave meddling with the stench of ash filling your flaring nostrils as his mouth claimed yours. He dragged his lips down your neck, shoving the hem of your nightdress up to your hips with no remorse. Joel's rough hands pushed one of your thighs over the rail without a word, and he pulled away, staring at you for a beat too long, at your pussy that glistened in the shaded moonlight just for him, polite and pretty and intoxicating.

"Ain't gonna fuck you." He growled, his breath hot on your skin as he nipped across the soft skin of your jaw line. You felt the tip of his middle finger trace along your wet folds, gathering up that slick that was just for him. "Ain't gonna do it, not yet."

And then he knelt, like a sinner offering himself up before god, but not before slipping his finger in your mouth, allowing you to taste just how sweet your sin tasted, allowing your own moisture to coat your tastebuds, salty and sweet and damned.

Right there, on that forsaken porch, rain pounding down around you, lightning flashing, he tasted you for the first time. Your shift bunched around your waist while he pulled your leg over his shoulder and devoured you, like he was punishing you for existing, angry that you were there and stirring up so much trouble in his life.

He started slowly, gently, allowed him to explore every inch of you, and then you felt his mouth on your clit, sucking hard and rough, a wild wolf that finally caught his prey. His dull nails dug into your hips, holding you tight and hard as though the storm winds would whisk you away from him. You wanted to cry out his name. Joel, Joel, Joel. That was who was worshipping at the altar of you, that's who was making you feel this good, this... heavenly.

Your hands slipped down, found his own, and as he ran his tongue back and forth across your swelling clit, you traced the veins on the back of his hands, explored the divots of his knuckles, felt the tips of his rough nails worn down from years of labor, you memorized the way he felt against you.

You memorized the way his tongue felt in your pussy, his teeth on your thighs- and right there on that porch he made you his, ruined you for any other man. The pretty flesh of your lower belly was bruised by the markings of his teeth, tattooed by his incisors, purple and pretty and all for him, your arousal dripping down your legs, thick and heavy with the weight of your crimes.

You orgasmed with your hand tight in his hair and his name bitten into your bottom lip, you tasted the metallic tang of blood as he tasted your honeyed cum, flowing all because of him.

After you finished, he stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and he stared at you, not saying a word, inspecting you like a sculpture in a museum.

Your chest rose and fell as you caught your breath, but he had nothing else to offer in terms of aftercare or remorse- he simply walked back inside, and you caught a glimpse of that cross-stitched Jesus watching you from the kitchen window.

The next morning came thick and hot, humid from all that rain, the air thick like syrup. The morning songbirds chirped like they hadn't just witnessed a crime against both God and family values on that porch, their melody delightfully pretty and annoyingly cheerful.

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, wrapped in an old robe that might have once belonged to your mother, but now hung open on you in a way that was clearly an act of war, devious and lustful.

You didn't have to look up to know Joel was there. You could feel him. Brooding in the corner like the storm hadn't quite ended.

He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his black coffee in one hand. Joel wouldn't look at you, in fact he refused.

"Moooornin', Uncle Joel." You grinned, your voice as light and sweet as the peach jam your grandma had laid out on the table. You didn't miss the way his teeth clenched together.

He nodded towards you. Didn't speak a word.

Coward.

Grandma was flipping pancakes. Tommy and your mamma were nowhere to be seen, which felt like a small mercy. The smell of butter and shame hung low in the air as you slid onto a stool at the kitchen island, your heels crossed just so as you poured yourself some apple juice.

"Sleep alright?" You asked him plainly, as if your thighs hadn't been wrapped around his handsome face a few hours ago.

"Slept fine." He muttered.

"Are you sure? You seemed a little... tense last night."

Joel slammed his mug down on the table a little too hard.

Your grandma looked up from the griddle with a startt, her voice a disapproving tut. "Now y'all better be gettin' along now. Ain't no room for drama in this house, except what's on daytime TV." She pointed her spatula between the both of you, he eyes glossed over with seriousness.

"Oh, don't worry, Nan. We get along real well." You calmed her with a big smile. "Don't we, Uncle Joel?"

He walked towards you, and you suddenly felt small against his shadow, tiny and powerless as he towered over where you sat. His face twitched. You smelled like that sweet coconut shampoo you always used, and that pretty vanilla perfume he could always pick out from a mile away.

"Go put on somethin' decent," he warned through gritted teeth, voice quiet and low. Your nan hummed naively in the background, whistling as she continued making breakfast.

"This ain't decent?" You blinked innocently, your voice like sugar.

He finally looked at you then, eyes locking, his irises dark and dangerous and far, far away.

That's when you felt it. That nasty tension, that heat that settled between you two- undeniable, like a bruise beginning to bloom beneath the skin of a polite conversation. The memory of his mouth and how it felt hung in the space between the both of you like humidity.

"Don't start," he growled beneath his breath, low enough that only you could hear.

"I'm not startin," you whispered, leaning in close enough to make him flinch. "I'm just finishing what you-"

"Stop."

You held his gaze for a beat too long. The word tumbled out low, dangerous- any other peep from you and he would take matters into his own hands, that much you were sure of.

Then you stood, slowly and deliberately, the robe parting just enough to show the curve of your hip.

"Fine." You relented, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "I'll go change."

You didn't miss the way his eyes dragged down your body one last time, and before either of you could turn away, he caught your wrist in his hands.

He nodded for a moment, eyes boring into your own.

"Good girl." Joel whispered, those simple syllables knocking the air right out of your lungs. His thumb felt soft as it caressed atop your knuckles, and you watched him saunter off to his coffee cup before you scurried towards your room.

For a long while you stood in the hallway, lips parted, trembling from the ghost of his voice against your ear.

Good girl.

He said it like a threat. Like a confession. Like the kind of thing a man only says once, or forever- either or.

You stood there dumbly for a moment, blinking.

The house buzzed around you- grandma humming over pancakes, a child screaming about a lost toy- but it all faded into static.

Because Joel Miller had just called you good girl, and you knew the world would never be the same again. At least not yours.

Your skin buzzed like live wire, chest tight. Between your legs was an entirely different story- a slow, throbbing mess. That damn robe clung to your body like it was trying to apologize for failing to cover enough, as though it wished it could have saved you from your recent conundrum of both the heart and the pussy.

You walked towards your room, chest pounding with every step, every bone in your body warning you to turn back before it was too late.

But it already was, and it already had been.

You didn't hear him follow you, you didn't have to. You could feel him, you could feel the air pressure shift and change, like the house was tilting in his direction. The hair on your arms rose, skin prickling with the heat that rolled off of him in waves.

You paused outside your bedroom door, fingers curling around the frame. And then, before anything else, came his voice: low, thick, full of grit and threat.

"You like actin' up in front of people?"

Slowly you turned your head.

He was standing there, arms cross, coffee mug long since abandoned. His gaze was darker than it had been at breakfast. It was predatory. That porch-slick, tongue-between-your-legs version of Joel... he had never left, in fact he was alive and well.

"Wasn't tryin' to act up-"

"Bull. Shit." Joel snarled, backing you up into your room, circling you like a hungry wolf. He kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. "You think I didn't see what you were doin'? Wearin' that-that... thing. Lookin' at me like that in front of your grandma?"

You were backed into the wall now, the torn floral wallpaper a stark contrast to the energy that dripped off of your bodies. His hand came up, cupped your jaw- not hard, but firm, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip as though he were weighing whether to shut you up or make you moan.

"Maybe I wanted your attention." You muttered, gently chewing on your bottom lip.

Joel breathed hard, nostrils flaring, before his thumb dipped past your lip, just slightly, resting tenderly on the tip of your tongue. It was enough to make your knees wobble and your heart beat hard against the cage of your ribs.

"Keep talkin' like that," he growled, "and I'll take you apart right here, right now. With your mamma in the livin' room and the Lord watchin'."

You whimpered.

You hated yourself for it, loved yourself for it.

He leaned in, lips grazing yours, not kissing- hovering. Making you beg for his very touch with your breath.

"You gonna be a good girl for real this time?"

You nodded, wordless.

And then- He pulled away, snatched his hand back like you were poison and he had been cut.

"Then get dressed. We're goin' into town. Gotta pick up beer for the grill."

Just like that. A simple command. As if the little room hadn't nearly erupted into flames.

You stood frozen, skin flushed, thighs trembling, every nerve screaming his name over and over and over again. You wanted to scream after him, wanted to brand the word coward into him with a red hot iron. You wanted to pull him back against you and make him finish what he started.

Instead, you slipped into the closet and reached for something short, tight, and pretty. The shorts barely counted as fabric, and the little gold cross dangling around your neck was perfectly ironic, pretty and dainty between your collarbones.

Joel was already waiting by the door, keys in hand, a muscle twitching in his jaw like he'd been chewing on the same thought all morning. His eyes dragged over you once, and that was all it took.

He inhaled deeply through his nostrils before speaking. "Get in the truck."

A warning.

The ride started silent.

He didn't look at you as he drove, and you didn't bother pretending you couldn't notice the way his fingers tightened around the steering wheel every time your thighs shifted against the hot leather seat.

"You always this quiet?" Your words were meant to poke the bear, a shit eating grin stretched cutely on your mouth.

"You always this loud?" He shot back.

You smiled something innocent. "Only when I'm ignored."

Joel scoffed. "Ain't ignorin' you," he muttered, eyes on the road. "I'm tryin' not to fuckin' kill you."

You tilted your head. "Oh?"

"You think this is funny?"

"Oh no, not at all. I think it's... fun."

Another twitch. His fingers grasped the steering wheel so tight it looked like it hurt.

"You don't got any idea what you're doin'." Joel rasped.

"I'm wearing shorts in the summer, Joel. It's not a crime."

He laughed a short, dry laugh. "Not a crime? Oh baby. It is when you're sittin' next to your step-daddy's big brother with your legs wide open. I'm supposed to be your uncle."

You spread your legs a little wider, your grin only widening. "You lookin' or something?"

"Jesus Christ." He growled, umber irises clinging to the turf ahead.

You allowed the sweet kiss of silence to stretch long and painful between the both of you, the heat between your bodies thick enough to chew. The radio was off, the only sounds were the rumble of the engine and the occasional sharp exhale from Joel, like he was trying to exorcise something demonic from within him.

Eventually you reached over and turned the dial, letting some old country song roll in, low and moody.

"She got a body like a backroad..." The man crooned on the radio.

You smiled wide. "You like this one, Uncle Joel?" Your words were a taunting challenge, a hook and bait you were begging him to grab ahold of.

Joel said nothing.

You leaned in closer, close enough to feel his shoulder against your arm.

"Don't like it when I call you Uncle?" You asked softly, your voice a hot whisper that fanned across his face.

He shook his head. "No."

"Fine. What about... daddy?"

Joel turned and looked at you. Really looked at you.

Dark brown eyes wild. Breath short. Sweat kissing at his temple.

"You keep talkin' like that, and you're gonna learn what the word daddy means real fuckin' quick."

You licked your lips. "I was hopin' I would."

He pulled over. Fast.

His truck skidded into a shaded shoulder off the side of the road, gravel crunching like bones beneath the tires. He parked. Threw it in gear. Then turned to you wild and raging like he was about to do something illegal.

"Get in the backseat." He rasped.

You shifted. Slow, testing, leaning into his space. Your heart pounded.

"Make me." They were only two simple words. Soft. Defiant. But they were enough to bring the whole universe crashing in on you.

Joel stared you down, caught between deciding whether he wanted to kiss you or kill you.

He made his choice.

You didn’t even have time to squeal before he’d reached over, grabbed you by the waist, and hauled you over the console like you weighed nothing. You hit the backseat with a soft grunt, denim-clad hips scraping across the warm leather, and before you could blink, he was on top of you.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” Joel growled, voice like thunder rumbling in a storm cellar. His fingers were working the buttons of your shorts, rough against your exposed skin in a way that was deliciously dirty.

“I think I do,” you whispered, smiling up at him like the liar you were.

His hand was on your thigh, pushing it open—wide. Exposing the lacy little excuse for underwear you’d chosen just for this moment. It was soaked through.

Joel groaned like he was in pain.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He leaned in, forearm braced beside your head, the other sliding under your thigh, hoisting it up until your knee nearly touched the fogged-up window and your foot was resting on his shoulder. His breath was hot on your face, the scent of coffee and cigarettes and something darker, something animal, wafting across your face.

“You’re drippin’,” he muttered, eyes locked on the spot between your panties that pulsed for his touch. “You’re gonna tell me this ain’t what you wanted? That you didn’t walk outta that house like a fuckin’ invitation?”

“I wanted this,” you breathed. “I want you.”

He growled. Actually growled.

His fingers hooked under your panties and dragged them aside, exposing your soaked cunt to the hot air inside the truck. He didn’t even take them off, just shoved them to the side, rough and impatient and easily forgotten.

Then his fingers were on you—two of them, thick and calloused, sliding through your folds, parting you open like you were his to split and ruin and mark.

You gasped.

“Joel—fuck—”

“That’s Daddy,” he hissed, and then he was inside you, two fingers buried to the hilt, pressing up against that spongy shot that had uncontrollable moans erupting from your throat.

You saw stars.

Back arched. Mouth open. One hand flew to his wrist, trying to steady yourself as he fucked you with his fingers, deep and precise, curling against that sweet spot like he’d mapped it himself.

“Tight little pussy,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours. “So goddamn wet for me. So fuckin’ pretty.”

You were moaning now—soft and breathless and desperate. His name fell from your lips again and again, but it wasn’t the one he wanted.

So he slowed down, pulled his fingers out just enough to tease your entrance, not pushing back in until you whined.

“What’s my name?” he asked.

“Joel—”

“Wrong.”

He stopped completely. Just held you there, fingers resting at your slick, pulsing hole, lips against your neck, teeth dragging against your veins.

“What’s my fuckin’ name, sugar?”

You choked on a gasp.

“D-Daddy—fuck—Daddy, please—”

And just like that, he slammed his fingers back in, rougher now. Faster. His palm rubbed against your clit as he worked you open, relentless, filthy sounds echoing inside the cab.

“That’s my girl. My good girl," he murmured, kissing the corner of your jaw as you writhed beneath him. “Takin’ it so well. Just like you were made for me.”

Your eyes rolled back. Every muscle in your body clenched. Your stomach twisted tight and sweet, and then—

You came.

Hard.

Convulsing around his fingers, sobbing his name, thighs trembling against his sides. He didn’t stop until he wrung every last spasm from your body, until you were so sure you would pass out if he went any longer.

Only then did he pull his fingers out—slow, sticky, glistening—and stare at them like they’d just given him the answers to every question he’d never dared to ask. You watched him slowly sink one into his mouth, lick off the taste that sung of you, his dark eyes peering in to your own, challenging and mean.

“Taste like sin,” he muttered. “Sweet, nasty little sin.”

You lay there, spent and gasping, your skin hot against the sticky leather, your mind wrecked, your heart somewhere in the back of your throat, beating and thrumming and clawing its way towards your tongue.

And Joel?

He just leaned back in the front seat and lit a cigarette, breathing hard, not saying a word, allowing the smoke to cover him like a safety blanket.

“We still gotta get the beer,” he said after a long pause, voice low and ruined.

You blinked at him, dazed.

“You’re outta your fuckin’ mind,” you whispered, your top halfway off your body and your little jean shorts still unzipped and uncomfortably tight around your hips.

He grinned, crooked and mean. You shouldn't have found it so alluring, but you did. How could you not? "You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

After Joel wrung your orgasm out like it owed him rent, the truck ride into town was—unsurprisingly—tense. He didn’t speak, nor did he look at you.

Just smoked his cigarette like it was a goddamn life raft and kept his eyes glued to the road.

But you knew him now. Knew the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of his eyes in the rearview mirror, the way his free hand kept flexing open and closed on the gearshift.

Uncle Joel was seething.

Not because of what you’d let him do to you, but because of how easy it was. How easy it was to sink his thick fingers deep within you, how easy it was for his ears to tune to the pitch of your moans, pretty and wild, how easy it was to get lost in the way your eyes went crazy and wide with pleasure he was giving you.

It was too easy, alarmingly so.

And by the time he rolled into the parking lot, those thoughts were thrumming loud in his ear drums.

The gas station was one of those sad little roadside stops with flickering lights and hand-scrawled beer specials in the window, old and rundown and oh so hick. The air was thick with diesel exhaust and divorced dad regret, heavy with a sort of tension that was unknown to you.

You slid out of the truck, legs still a little shaky, and walked inside like nothing had happened, still trying to adjust your bra straps, as though all of the town had their eyes on you and knew what you had just done. Joel stayed outside, leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, eyes locked on you through the dusty windshield as he opened up his second pack of American Spirits.

You could feel the heat of him even from twenty feet away.

And then he walked in.

Some guy—twenties, scruffy, boots worn but clean. Too much cologne. You smelled him before you saw him, and he smelled like bad decisions made in the back of a pickup truck. Not unlike the one you’d just made, but something that was- somehow- even more embarrassing.

“Hey there,” he said, smiling wide, eyes dragging down your legs, over your ass, lingering just a beat too long on the swell of your tits beneath the tight tank. “You lost, sweetheart?”

You turned your head slow. Blinked. Smiled like a trap being set.

“No, I’m good. Just grabbin’ some beer for the grill.”

“Family BBQ?” he asked, stepping closer. “Mind if I crash? I make a mean brisket.”

You laughed. Sweet and dismissive. But then you glanced out the window.

Joel was still watching. His jaw was clenched, and his arms were still crossed, yet the veins on his arms bulged with something dangerously close to jealousy. You saw it in his umber irises- something murderous. It made your heart beat pick up, made that adrenaline in your belly pound for more.

So you leaned into it. Just a little.

“I dunno,” you purred. “You look more like dessert than dinner.”

The guy laughed, and his oil covered fingers touched your elbow as his lips parted to say something else, no doubt something boyish and horny.

Joel moved.

You didn’t see him come in—but suddenly he was there, all heat and fury, stepping between you and the stranger with the kind of slow, dangerous calm that made your stomach drop and all that adrenaline fade.

“She’s taken,” Joel said, voice low and steady, like a hungry dog growling through its teeth, with no cage to stop it from pouncing.

The guy blinked, all of his emotion draining from his face. “Whoa, man. I was- I was just talkin’—”

“Yeah, I saw.” Joel’s hand came down hard on the counter as he leaned in, inches from the poor bastard’s face, and you saw the crow's feet narrow alongside his eyes, saw the way his teeth gritted tight together as he spat out his words. “You ever look at her like that again, I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw.”

“Jesus, alright—”

“Don’t bring him into this.” You would have laughed if the situation wasn't so tense/

The guy backed off fast, muttering apologies as he grabbed a bag of chips and vanished down an aisle, his tail between his legs and his head down. You stood there, beer in hand, soaking in the tension like it was bathwater, unsure of what to say or do next.

Joel didn’t look at you. Not until you reached for the register. He leaned in close, breath hot at your ear. “We’re gonna have a problem if you keep lettin’ boys touch what don’t belong to them.”

You turned your head, inches from his lips. “I didn’t know I belonged to anyone.” Your words were steady, despite the way your heart pounded inside of you.

He smiled, but it wasn’t nice, it never was. “You will.”

He paid for the beer and a fresh pack of cigarettes before hauling you outside, back to the deserted parking lot, back to his truck that was hidden behind the dumpster, the air thick and still with summer heat.

"I don't believe you." You challenged, his hand tight around your wrist.

He stopped in his tracks. Joel looked at you like he'd just made peace with his damnation.

His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. And then—he grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you, it was more of a threat than a declaration. Not soft. Not romantic. Consuming.

You barely had time to gasp before he spun you around and shoved you against the grimy, vibrating hood of his pickup, right there in the gas station parking lot.

“Get in the fuckin’ truck,” he snarled.

“No.”

You didn’t flinch. You wanted the punishment. You needed the consequence. You craved him.

His eyes went dark. Dangerously dark. You felt it in your throat, in your clit, in your soul.

“You think you’re in charge?” Joel stepped in close, pressing the heat of his body against your back, one hand gripping your waist like he wanted to crush you and fuck you in the same motion. “You been walkin’ around all summer with your little ass hangin’ out, beggin’ for attention, and now you’re gonna act shy? Nah, baby. You earned this.”

His fingers trailed down your stomach and popped the button on your shorts with one flick. You didn’t stop him. You arched into it, your ass tight against his hardened cock.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you right here,” he muttered against your ear. “Where anyone could see. Where someone might walk by and know exactly what you are.”

“What am I?” you asked, breathless, barely able to get the words out as he dragged your zipper down and shoved your shorts and soaked panties to your knees.

Joel’s hand slid between your thighs. His fingers dipped into your wetness, obscene and slick.

“My dirty little girl,” he growled. “My fuckin’ problem. My cock-hungry little niece.”

You gasped, legs already shaking.

He chuckled darkly.

“Yeah. That got you wet, didn’t it? Bein’ my brother’s girl. Bein’ my family. You been thinkin’ about this every night, haven’t you? Touched yourself with that pretty little cross around your neck while you thought about Uncle Joel splittin’ you open like a goddamn peach.”

You whimpered. You were already on the edge. Already soaked. Already gone.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“I want it.”

“Say what you are.”

You clenched around nothing. Your mouth felt dry and sinful, tongue aching for words that would never fully form.

“I’m your niece,” you whispered, words broken. “And I want you to ruin me.”

Joel groaned. Real. Deep. Like it hurt him.

Then he flipped you over, shoved you up onto the hood, and dragged your legs open with no ceremony, no patience, like a man unhinged.

You watched his eyes drag over you. Soaking. Spread. Wanton.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” he muttered, dragging the head of his cock through your dripping folds. “Told myself I’d be good. But then you started callin’ me Daddy. And now—fuck, baby—I’m gonna wreck you.”

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe.

One thrust.

One brutal, impossible thrust and he was inside you, bottomed out, thick and hot and everywhere all at once.

You cried out—loud, raw, unfiltered—and he loved it.

“Shhh, now,” Joel purred. “You don’t wanna get caught, do you? You want someone to see me fuckin’ this little pussy? Want someone to know you got your uncle's cock inside you?”

You moaned. Desperate. Aching.

He snapped his hips forward.

The truck rocked under you.

Gas station lights flickered overhead. The radio inside buzzed faintly, muffled by the sound of you being fucked within an inch of your existence.

“God, Joel—please—”

“What? You prayin’ now?” he growled, grabbing the back of your thigh and lifting it higher so he could go deeper. “You think God’s listenin’? Sweetheart, He left the moment you let me push my cock inside you.”

You clenched around him, sobbing out with how fucking full you were.

“You like that?” Joel growled, hips slamming into you over and over. “You like Daddy tellin’ you you’re too far gone to be saved?”

“Yes—yes—I want it—I need it—”

Joel leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice a low snarl.

“I’m gonna cum inside you.”

Your eyes widened.

“You’re gonna sit at dinner tonight with my cum leakin’ out of you while your step daddy Tommy passes you the fuckin’ potatoes and pretends not to see the way you squirm in your seat.”

“Do it,” you begged. “Breed me, Daddy.”

That broke him.

He fucked you so hard the hood of the truck dented. Your thighs bruised beneath his grip. Your nails scraped the metal like claws, your voice rising in pitch with every snap of his hips.

You came so hard your vision whited out, screaming his name—Joel, Daddy, Uncle, whatever it took—as your pussy fluttered around him like it was made to take him, like it was created for the sole purpose of feeling Joel Miller's fucking cock, for taking his cum.

Joel’s hips didn’t stop even after he emptied himself inside you. He stayed deep, grinding into the mess he’d made like he wanted to etch his name inside your womb. You could feel him—still hard, still leaking, still not satisfied.

You whimpered, face pressed to the warm hood of the truck, your legs spread wide and shaking. Every movement sent another hot trickle of him dripping down the inside of your thigh.

“Too much,” you gasped. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

He leaned over you, chest against your back, breath hot against your ear.

“You don’t get to say that,” Joel growled. “Not when you begged for it. Not when you called me Daddy with my cock already buried inside you.”

One of his hands slipped under your shirt and dragged up your belly, sliding rough over your ribs until he palmed your breast, squeezing tight, fingers pinching your nipple until you gasped.

“Now you’re gonna take it.”

He slid out—just enough to watch your pussy flutter and leak—and then slammed back in, all the way to the hilt, feeling your gummy walls constrict tightly around him.

You cried out. It was too much. It was perfect.

Joel moaned behind you, grabbing your hips hard enough to bruise. He didn’t care that you were shaking, that your thighs were already slick with both of your cum, that you were gasping like you were about to cry.

He fucked you anyway.

Hard. Deep. Fast. Dirty.

The truck shook with every thrust. The sound of it—wet and obscene—echoed through the empty parking lot like a prayer in reverse.

“Listen to that,” Joel grunted. “That’s what you wanted, right? That sweet little cunt of yours suckin’ me in. You fuckin’ hear it?”

You were sobbing now, your face pressed to the metal, your body twitching from overstimulation.

“I can’t—Joel—please—”

His hand slapped your ass. “You can. And you will.”

Then he spit on his fingers and reached around, finding your clit like he’d done it a hundred times. Like it was his.

He rubbed tight, brutal circles against it—no patience, no mercy, your little bud tight and sensitive, twitching beneath the pads of his calloused fingers.

“Don’t you dare hold it,” he growled. “Cum on my cock again. Show me just how ruined you really are.”

You couldn’t even speak. You splintered. You came so hard your knees buckled. Your mouth opened in a silent scream. Your pussy clenched around him like it didn’t want to let go.

And Joel—he came again.

Harder this time. With a groan so deep it sounded like a man dying and coming back to life at once. He stayed deep, rutting into you, making sure every drop of him was inside, that none of his spend would go to waste.

You felt it—hot and thick and endless—coating your walls, your thighs, your soul.

And then… stillness.

Heavy breathing.

You, draped over the hood of the truck like a used doll, your body soaked in sweat and slick and shameful satisfaction.

Joel pulled out slow, watching his cum drip from you. A thick string slid down the inside of your leg and he groaned at the sight of it.

He dragged two fingers through the mess and brought them to your mouth.

You opened. You sucked. You tasted everything—him, you, the filth of what you were—and didn’t look away once.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, running his thumb along your bottom lip. “You're mine now, baby."

You nodded. Smiling like the little sinner you were.

Bent. Fucked. Full. And proud of it.

When you arrived home, you walked into the kitchen, the house loud with the clatter of silverware and family gossip. You could feel Joel's cum thick and hot between your legs, stuffed full, your pussy sore and used and humming with pleasant satisfaction.

You walked inside like a new woman. You were freshly showered- sort of- rinsed off by a hose outside on Joel's orders, while he smoked and watched the way your body moved, told you not to get too clean.

So you didn't.

You were still wearing his flannel. No bra. That pretty cross dangling between your pretty breasts, glistening and glimmering beneath the low light of the old rickety house.

Everyone had seated for lunch. Grandma at the head of the table. Your mother, flushed from wine. Tommy, smiling wide. Cousins, loud and sticky with grape soda and sunscreen. The TV was playing some rerun of an old Baylor football game in the living room. A fly buzzed lazily near the screen door, the ambiance unsettling and homely.

Joel sat across from you at the table, his eyes following every movement you made, watched the exact moment your legs pressed together tightly because you shifted and felt that familiar drip, that tempestuous aftershock of all he had done to you.

He was pounding back Coors and sweet tea, doing anything he could to keep his mind off of you.

Your grandma passed the green beans and muttered something about politics. You tried not to make a sound, until your mamma looked at you with concerned and asked, "you alright, baby? You're awfully quiet."

"I'm fine, Mamma. Just sore."

Joel choked on his lager.

"Sore?" Tommy asked with a blink.

"Yeah." You sighed out innocently, raising your cup to your lips as you sent Joel a challenging glare from behind the brim. "Took a real long ride earlier."

Joel hid a grunt with a cough, loud and rough. He dropped his fork and stood up from the table, muttering about taking a smoke break, his face the vision of a man who wasn't sure if he were about to hit someone or fuck you again- and you weren't sure which it would be.

He looked at you. Hard. You grinned, slowly chewing on a spoonful of cobbler, watching as he walked out.

You waited for a bit. Got swept up in the conversation about football and politics and how crazy the world was getting.

You set your fork down after a while, following the blazing trail that Joel had left in his wake.

You found him on the back porch, cigarette lit, a hand in his pocket. The setting sun painted him in gold and ash, air heavy with tension and cicadas and everything you hadn't said.

He didn't turn around. He took a long, heavy drag, finally speaking. "This can't happen again."

You stepped closer, pressed your chest to his back, slid your arms around his waist- you swore he leaned in to it, tilted his head back every so slightly, like a broken man who hadn't been touched like that in years.

"Sure it can."

"No, it can't. You're-Tommy... you're-"

"Doesn't really matter." You hummed.

Joel turned, fast, eyes wild and mouth tense.

"You don't get it- I can't... hold back. Not with you."

"Yeah, I'm kinda counting on that, Joel."

There was a long silence, loud with singing crickets and your heartbeat and every broken thing that the both of you were.

But then?

He kissed you. Soft this time- but it wasn't safe, it never was, it never would be. It tasted like the end of something, like the beginning of something even worse.

Joel pulled back just enough to whisper, "you're gonna be the death of me."

And you smiled, tasting him on your tongue. "Maybe."

You glanced over your shoulder, through the screen door. Lunch was in full swing. Grandma rambling, Tommy laughing, Mamma pouring more wine- everything was normal. Everything was fine.

And none of them knew. Not yet, hopefully never.