slutty men enthusiast

He didn’t talk much. Didn’t smile either. You’d never seen him dance, never seen him drunk, never even seen him laugh. Just watched him pass through town like he was only borrowing space. A shadow in flannel. A man-shaped warning sign.

You knew better than to want someone like that.

But that didn’t stop you from looking.

Not when you saw him fixing the east gate with Tommy, sleeves rolled up and veins flexing along his forearms. Not when you passed him in the cold storage shed and caught a whiff of sawdust and leather, the scent sticking to your clothes like it meant something. Not when you heard that voice—low, cracked, Southern-soft around the edges—muttering something in passing.

You’d tried to tell yourself it was nothing. Just a dry spell. Just curiosity. Just loneliness.

Until the dance.

You hadn’t planned to go. These things made you itchy—too many strangers pretending the world hadn’t ended. But you’d been convinced to show your face, put on something soft instead of tactical. You wore a dress that hugged your hips and sipped something sweet and flat, standing along the wall like an outsider at your own party.

And then you saw him.

Off to the side, where the light didn’t quite reach. Sitting on a bench with one leg cocked, elbow braced on his knee, a bottle of whiskey hanging loose in his grip. He watched the crowd with a face carved in stone—tired, unreadable. The kind of quiet that wasn’t asking to be filled.

His eyes lifted and caught you.

You should’ve looked away, pretended not to care, but his gaze held you, and before you could think better of it, your feet were moving.

He straightened a little when you stopped in front of him, like he wasn’t sure what to expect. His expression didn’t change much, but something behind his eyes flickered—surprise, maybe. Curiosity.

You sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat of him. The scent of whiskey and cedar and something darker.

“You always sit alone like this?”

His eyes dragged slowly over you, and when he spoke, his voice was like worn gravel. “Ain’t much of a dancer.”

You smiled faintly, looking back at the crowd. “Me neither.”

Silence settled again. Not awkward. Just thick.

He drank. You watched his throat move.

“You look nice,” he said, rough and quiet, like the words had been pulled from him.

You turned toward him. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He cut his eyes at you, cautious. “You flirtin’ with me?”

“Maybe,” you said. “Would that be a problem?”

He paused. Swallowed again.

“…No,” he said. “Don’t reckon it would.”

You shifted slightly on the bench, resting your forearms on your thighs, mimicking his posture. It felt easier that way. Like maybe he’d meet you in the middle if you didn’t ask him to come all the way.

His gaze stayed on the crowd, but you could tell he was aware of you. Aware of how close your knee was to his. How your voice sat low in your throat, casual but edged in something warmer.

“You here alone?” he asked, like it only just occurred to him to ask.

You shrugged. “Came with someone, but not like that. Friend thing.” You let the pause linger. “Left early.”

He nodded, once. He didn’t look at you, but he shifted just enough to make room for the possibility.

You looked over at him, taking your time. The faint glow from the dance hall lights caught in his hair, picking out the silver. He looked tired. More handsome for it, somehow.

“You?”

A flick of his eyebrows. “Me what?”

“Are you here alone?”

He made a soft noise in his chest, something close to a laugh. “Always.”

You liked the way he said that—dry and dismissive, like he didn’t want pity. Like he was just stating fact.

Another beat passed.

“Don’t usually see you at these things,” you said.

“Don’t usually come.”

“So what changed your mind?”

His lips twitched. He glanced your way, finally meeting your eyes. “Not sure yet.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “Maybe I’m the reason.”

He exhaled slowly, long and steady. “That what you’re hopin’?”

You watched him. Watched the way his hands flexed against the neck of the bottle. How his jaw tensed under the beard.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you murmured. “You’ve been looking at me all night.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You that sure of yourself?”

You tilted your head. “You gonna deny it?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He turned the bottle in his hands, watching the whiskey catch the light. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough around the edges.

“You lookin’ for something?”

It was an honest question. Guarded, yes, but not cold. Like he was trying to decide what you were made of. Whether you were playing a game he didn’t know the rules to.

You leaned back slightly, tilting your head to meet his gaze full-on.

“I think I’ve already found something,” you said. “Just trying to figure out what happens next.”

That got him. You saw it—the way he blinked, slow and deliberate, like your words had landed somewhere deeper than he meant to let you reach.

But he didn’t pull away.

He just looked at you for a long, long moment. Like he was reading something on your face that he didn’t expect to find.

“…I don’t do casual,” he said finally. Low and hoarse. “Not good at it. Not lookin’ to mess with anyone’s head.”

You gave him a small smile. “Good thing I’ve got my head on straight.”

“You sure?” he asked.

The question wasn’t teasing. Not even a little. It came out quiet, weighted. Like it mattered to him. Like he wanted the answer to be yes, but couldn’t quite trust it.

You didn’t look away. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His eyes searched your face, not hungrily—just carefully. Like he was still trying to work out what kind of person you were. Whether you’d flinch if he showed his teeth. Whether you were real.

“I’m not young,” he said eventually, voice low and gruff. “Not soft. Don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“Good,” you said. “I’m not interested in soft.”

His mouth tugged to the side, like he almost smiled. Then he looked down at his hands again. Big hands. Veined. Strong. He turned the bottle in slow circles against his knee.

“You don’t know me.”

You shrugged gently. “I know you kill chickens in one blow. I know you say thank you when people hand you tools. I know you bring Ellie snacks from the stockroom and pretend it wasn’t you.”

He blinked, like that caught him off guard.

“I’ve been watching,” you said, softer now. “Same way you’ve been watching me.”

Joel exhaled, slow and steady. A breeze passed through the open door, lifting the edge of your dress. You smoothed it down absently, aware of his eyes there now too.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a good idea.”

You gave a quiet laugh. “I’m not lookin’ for a good idea. I’m looking for something that feels like it matters.”

His gaze sharpened. That hit somewhere. You could see it.

“Just want honesty,” you added, your voice slower now, almost shy. “And maybe a reason to stop pretending I don’t notice how you look at me.”

That silence again. Full of static.

He looked at you then. Really looked. Not just at your mouth or your legs or the line of your dress—but at you.

“I look at you,” he said finally, barely more than a rasp. “Because I can’t help it.”

Your breath caught a little, and he must’ve heard it. You watched his throat work around a swallow, his eyes flicking to your lips for just a second too long.

“But I don’t want to break anything,” he murmured. “Don’t want to ruin what’s good.”

You nodded. “Neither do I.”

More silence. Only now it didn’t feel like waiting—it felt like something opening.

“I should take you home,” he said.

Your pulse stuttered. “Are you offering?”

“I’m askin’,” he said. Then, quieter: “Can I walk you?”

You stood up slowly. Smoothed your dress. Looked down at him with a curl in your lips.

“You can.”

He rose beside you, slow and solid, and didn’t touch you—didn’t even reach for you. But he walked beside you all the way home, like you were something worth guarding.

You walked beside him in silence.

Not awkward. Not stiff. Just… aware. Every step in sync. Every brush of fabric had sparks.

You could hear the thud of your boots on the dirt path, the crunch of his heavier steps. Jackson was quiet at this hour—music still fading from the dance hall, chatter thinning behind you.

The wind was cool. You felt it on your skin where your dress dipped low. You wondered if he noticed. Wondered if it was driving him as crazy as it was you.

He didn’t speak until you reached the edge of your street. Then, he cleared his throat.

“I’m older than you,” he said.

You didn’t answer right away.

You turned to look at him—really look. The hard lines of his jaw. The streaks of gray in his beard. The way his eyes stayed on the ground as he said it, like he expected that to end things right there.

“I figured,” you said, voice soft. “What gave it away—the knees or the grumbling?”

He huffed, almost smiled. Almost. “Most people don’t take kindly to bein’ reminded of death.”

“Maybe,” you said. “But you don’t remind me of death.”

He looked up at that.

You stopped walking.

“You remind me of something that lasts,” you said. “Something that’s still here. Still kicking.”

His eyes searched your face again, same way he had back on the bench. Only now you saw something else flicker in them—something unguarded.

“You’re not a warning sign, Joel. You’re a goddamn billboard.”

That almost made him laugh. You could feel the breath of it when he shook his head.

“You think I’m kidding,” you added, stepping a little closer. “But truth is… I didn’t realize it did it for me until I got here.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Men like you,” you said. “Strong. Scarred. Quiet. Stubborn as hell. Built like a brick wall. Bit of a temper. Walk around like they’ve got nothing left to give but still show up when it counts.”

He blinked.

You smiled, just a little. “You’re exactly my type.”

Joel looked like he didn’t know what the fuck to do with that. His mouth opened, then closed again. His brows pulled together, like he was trying to decide whether you were fucking with him.

You reached for the doorknob behind you. The porch creaked beneath your feet.

“I don’t invite just anybody inside,” you said.

Joel hesitated. Then stepped closer, onto the first stair. He looked up at you from beneath the brim of his brows.

“You sure about this?”

You held his gaze. “Yeah,” you said. “I’ve been sure.”

You opened the door. Stepped back.

He walked past you slowly, and still didn’t touch you. But when you shut the door behind him and the latch clicked into place—

The air between you changed.

You hadn't even made it three steps inside before he turned to face you.

No words. No rush. Just a long, steady look.

You stood still under it. Let it warm you from the chest out. The door was shut, the night locked away behind it. The only light came from the little lamp on the counter, casting everything in a low, amber haze.

Then he reached for you.

Not all at once—he didn’t grab or push. Just lifted his hand, slow and deliberate, and wrapped his fingers around yours.

The calluses rasped over your knuckles, thick and dry and warm. He held you like he was holding something breakable, but still his. Then, without a word, he turned your hand over in his. Examined it.

Ran his thumb down the line of your lifeline. Touched the pads of your fingers.

You swallowed. “What are you doing?”

He looked up at you through those thick lashes, quiet.

“Just tryin’ to remember how this feels.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you tried to break the tension. “I could make us coffee,” you said, voice soft and a little shaky. “If you want.”

He let out a low breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“I don’t want coffee.”

You waited.

“I wanna fuck you.”

The words hit you like a wave. No hesitation. No build-up. Just a raw, unvarnished truth in that voice of his, deep and hoarse and thick with restraint.

Heat surged low in your belly. Your fingers flexed in his.

“That so?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

That was all it took.

You stepped in and kissed him, hard. Fisted your free hand in the front of his shirt, rising up on your toes to press your mouth against his. He kissed you back immediately—hungry, rough, like he’d been holding himself back for too long.

His hand moved to your waist, fingers curling tight around the curve of it. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, the heat of his body crowding into yours.

Your lips parted and he groaned into your mouth, pulling you closer. He kissed you like he needed to taste you before he could believe you were real.

There was nothing polite about it. No careful step-by-step. Just tongues, teeth, gasps—your bodies locking together like you’d already dreamed this a hundred times over.

He kissed like a man with history. Like someone who’d been starved of touch.

And you kissed him like you wanted to make up for all the years he’d gone without.

When you finally pulled back for breath, your forehead leaned into his.

“I meant it,” you whispered.

“So did I,” he said, voice rough. “Still do.”

Your lips were still damp from the kiss when you whispered it, breath warm against his cheek.

“What do you need?”

Joel’s hand flexed on your waist. His breath hitched.

You shifted back just enough to look at him—really look. His eyes were dark, clouded with heat, but underneath that was something deeper. Something tired and aching and full of hunger that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being wanted.

You lifted your hand, brushing it along the seam of his jaw, your thumb grazing the grayed hair just beneath his ear. “How do you want me?”

He didn’t speak for a long moment. You saw his throat work. Felt the tremble in his fingers where they still clutched your waist.

When he answered, it was barely a voice at all.

“Close.”

That was all. Just one word. But it broke something open in you.

You pressed into him again, your chest against his, your thighs brushing his jeans. You brought both your hands up to cup his face and kissed him slow this time, not soft, not gentle, just slow—like you had time.

He let you. Let you guide him. His mouth opened under yours, patient and hungry, letting you taste him. Letting you feel how much he wanted this—wanted you.

Then he pulled back, just enough to whisper: “Turn around.”

Your pulse fluttered, sharp and bright.

“Yeah?” you breathed.

He nodded. “Want to see you. All of you. Take it slow.”

Your hands slipped from his shirt. You turned without a word, facing the nearest wall—just a few feet from the kitchen table, the old floorboards creaking faintly under your feet.

You heard him step behind you. Felt the heat of his body close. He didn’t touch you yet. Just looked.

Then—fingers light at first—he ran one hand up your spine, tracing the zipper of your dress. He caught it and tugged, slow, inch by inch, the metal teeth parting with the softest sound in the room.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to.

You let the straps fall from your shoulders. Let the fabric slip down your body, pooling at your feet.

A sound came from behind you—low, broken. Joel breathing through his nose, holding himself in place.

You stood there in nothing but your underwear, hands resting at your sides, the soft glow from the kitchen lamp warming your bare skin.

“Is this close enough?” you asked, voice like smoke.

Behind you, his hands finally touched your hips. Firm. Unshaking.

“Not even close,” he said.

He kissed the back of your neck—just once, hot and open-mouthed—and pressed the weight of himself along your spine—slow, firm, steady.

You felt it instantly. Hard against your ass, hot even through the denim.

You choked out a laugh before you could stop yourself.

“Jesus Christ,” you said, head tipping forward against the wall. “You’re hard.”

Behind you, Joel let out a low groan that almost sounded like a laugh too, if he weren’t so clearly straining to hold himself together.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That part, uh… definitely still works.”

You laughed harder, breathless now, grinning even as your skin flushed. “No shit.”

He leaned into you then, arms bracketing your waist. You could feel the rumble of his chest against your back.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he asked, voice pitched low beside your ear. “Laughin’ while I’m like this?”

You wriggled back against him just enough to feel him pulse in his jeans. “You think this is funny?”

His mouth brushed your shoulder, his breath hot. “No. Think it’s fuckin’ torture.”

“Want me to stop?”

His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. “Don’t you dare.”

You smiled again, slower now, biting your lip. Then you reached behind yourself and slipped your fingers along the waistband of his jeans. “Then maybe you should do something about it.”

Joel’s breath caught. His lips ghosted along the back of your neck.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

You felt him move—rough fingers sliding down to unbutton his jeans, the rasp of denim and zipper filling the space between your shallow breaths. Then his hand was back on you, under your panties, squeezing the curve of your ass like he needed to feel you, full-palmed, skin on skin.

You arched into him with a soft gasp.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said into your shoulder. “Since the first time I saw you.”

You swallowed. “And now?”

He kissed your spine. Once. Twice.

“Now I’m gonna take my time.”

He let go of you just long enough to step back, the heat of his body peeling away like sun slipping behind clouds. You almost whined at the loss.

You turned to face him.

Joel stood in the amber glow of your kitchen lamp, jeans hanging low on his hips, shirt wrinkled and half untucked. His hair was mussed, jaw shadowed thick, and there was something raw in his eyes—like this wasn’t just lust, not just a need. Like this was something he hadn’t let himself want in a long time.

You stepped closer.

He met you there, hands returning to your waist, calloused palms skimming the sides of your thighs. His touch was firm but slow, reverent even. When he slid your panties down your legs, he knelt to follow them. His fingers dragged down the backs of your thighs, and he stayed crouched for a beat longer, just looking up at you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Quiet.

Your chest tightened.

“Stand up,” you said, voice gentler now.

He did, and you tugged at the hem of his shirt. He let you undress him, arms lifting as you peeled the fabric over his head. Beneath it, he was all muscle and scars—hard-won strength etched into skin that had seen too much. You smoothed your palms over his chest, drinking in every inch.

He reached for his waistband next, pushing jeans and briefs down in one motion. His cock was thick, flushed, already glistening at the tip.

You licked your lips before you could help it.

He didn’t move toward you. Just stood there, letting you look. Letting you want.

You reached for his hand instead.

He blinked, surprised, and let you take it.

You brought his fingers to your lips, kissed the tips, then slipped two into your mouth.

The growl he let out was sharp and quiet, barely audible, like it scraped against the inside of his throat.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You sucked gently, tongue gliding over rough pads and calloused edges, slow and warm and dirty just for him. You wanted him to feel it—to see what it’d be like to have you wrapped around more than just his hand.

He was breathing harder now. Cock twitching between you. You pulled off with a soft pop and met his gaze.

“You want me to stop?” you teased.

Joel swallowed hard. “No,” he said. Then, rougher: “Where’s your bedroom?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just reached for his other hand, curling your fingers through his.

“Come on,” you said.

And led him down the dark hallway, step by step, until the two of you crossed that threshold together.

The bedroom was dark, the door clicking shut behind you with a quiet finality.

You didn’t bother turning on the light. The glow from the hallway was enough to see the outline of him—bare-chested, cock hanging hard and heavy, eyes still fixed on you like you might vanish if he blinked.

He didn’t expect what you did next.

You dropped to your knees.

“Wait—” he said, voice gone gravel-thick with surprise, but your hands were already curling around his thighs, steady and sure.

“Let me,” you said softly. “I want to.”

He stopped breathing.

Your hands slid up the backs of his legs, slow and deliberate, and then you took him in hand—felt the heat of him, the weight, the way he twitched under your palm. You leaned in and pressed your lips to the tip, just a kiss. Then your tongue flicked out, tasting him, teasing.

Joel’s breath shuddered out of him. One hand hit the wall behind you. The other found your shoulder, holding—not pushing, not guiding, just holding.

“Goddamn,” he rasped. “Jesus, sweetheart…”

You took him into your mouth, slow and steady, your lips stretching around him, your jaw aching in the best way. You felt the tremble in his thighs, heard the low groan he tried to swallow down.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “That mouth… shit.”

He was big. Thick enough to make your eyes water, and you loved it—loved the weight, the stretch, the way he pulsed against your tongue.

But before you could take him all the way, he pulled back—gently, firmly, both hands cupping your face as he looked down at you.

“Enough,” he said. Not harsh. Not breathless. Just… solid.

You blinked up at him. “You didn’t like it?”

“I fuckin’ loved it,” he said. “Which is why I need you on the bed. Now.”

He hauled you up with a strength that made your knees weak, hands big and sure on your waist as he backed you toward the mattress. You fell back onto it, breathless and grinning, and he followed—settling between your thighs like it was the only place he’d ever wanted to be.

He kissed the inside of your knee first. Then your thigh. Then the other. He took his time, lips dragging over your skin like he wanted to learn every inch.

By the time his mouth reached you, you were already slick and aching.

He groaned when he tasted you. “Fuck...”

He set to work. Languid. Unrushed. His mouth was patient, lips parting you, tongue stroking soft and deep. He sucked your clit only when you were already close, never too soon, never too sharp.

He held your thighs open, kissed you through the first orgasm, coaxed you through the second—his voice murmuring praise against your skin.

“Good girl. That’s it. Let me have it, baby.”

And only when your thighs were shaking, your breath stuttering, did he finally lift his head.

“Now,” he said, voice dark and thick, “I’m gonna fuck you.”

You were still catching your breath when he moved—rising from between your legs, mouth shining, beard damp with you.

You reached for him, half-dazed. Ready to feel him above you, finally heavy and full inside, pinning you down. But instead of climbing over you, Joel sat back on the bed, broad legs spread and shoulders slack. He reached for you.

“C’mere.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

He nodded toward his lap, voice low and steady. “Come sit on it, baby.”

You flushed all over. The raw want in his tone made you ache. You crawled forward and climbed onto him, knees bracketing his hips, your thighs still trembling.

The head of his cock dragged between your folds, hot and slick and perfect. You rocked instinctively and gasped when the tip caught on your entrance.

Joel growled softly. “You feel that?”

You nodded, dazed.

He leaned back slightly, watching you like it was killing him to keep still. “Take it slow. Sink down on me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”

You reached between your bodies and held him steady, your hand small against the thickness of him. And then, slowly, you lowered yourself onto his cock.

You both moaned—his hands gripping your hips hard, your mouth falling open as he stretched you, inch by inch.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You’re—Jesus, Joel—”

“Shh,” he rasped, panting through his nose. “You’re takin’ me so good.”

You rocked once you had him buried to the hilt, hips shifting instinctively. The fullness made your whole body tense. Your muscles clenched around him and he groaned.

“That’s it,” he said. “Ride me. Show me how bad you needed this.”

You moved slowly at first, lifting and sinking onto him, but it didn’t stay slow for long. He met you halfway with every thrust, hips punching up into yours. His hands guided your rhythm—one wrapped around your waist, the other gripping your ass, fingers digging in like he needed to anchor himself.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t sweet. It was rough, a push and pull that felt like it could tear you open and still wouldn’t be enough.

You kissed him like you couldn’t breathe without it—messy and open-mouthed, tongues dragging, teeth clacking. Your fingers dug into his hair, gripping tight, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, moaning into your mouth.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to his. “You feel so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” Joel grunted, slamming up into you. “You love ridin’ this old man’s cock?”

You whimpered. “Yes, Joel, fuck, I love it—”

He shifted under you, pulling you forward, closer—until your chest was pressed to his, sweat-slick skin against skin. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other braced between your shoulder blades, holding you steady as he fucked up into you, deep and relentless.

You clung to him—arms looped around his shoulders, your mouth pressed to the side of his neck. You felt him everywhere now. Inside you. Against you. Beneath you. Around you.

The thrusts weren’t graceful anymore. They were desperate. Messy. Wet sounds filled the room—your soaked cunt taking him over and over, your bodies slapping together. Every time he slammed up, you gasped, your breath catching hard in your throat.

You could feel the way his muscles bunched under your hands. Could hear his breath ragged in your ear, the low, broken sounds he made when your pussy clenched around him.

“Fuck—baby—you’re so tight,” he groaned, voice torn and breathless. “You’re gonna make me come—”

You kissed him blindly, teeth clashing, and moaned into his mouth. Your hips rocked erratically, your thighs burning, and all of it—his cock, his mouth, the way he held you like he needed to fuse your bodies together—was pushing you right to the edge.

Joel felt it. He could feel the way you started to tremble. He leaned in, lips at your ear now. “That’s it,” he rasped. “Give it to me. I want to feel it.”

You shook your head, like it was too much. You were too full, too stretched, too fucked to handle one more second of it.

But then he fucked up hard—once, twice—and wrapped both arms tight around your body, burying his face in your neck.

You shattered.

It hit like a wave slamming into a seawall—violent, unstoppable. You came with a sharp cry, back arched, nails clawing into his shoulders as you convulsed around him.

Joel held on. Fucked you through it, groaning into your throat.

“Jesus, fuck—there you go, baby, there you go—”

You came hard, loud, legs shaking in his lap, mouth falling open in a raw yell that cracked at the edges.

Joel didn’t stop. Not until you collapsed against him, trembling, soaking, gasping for air.

Only then did he slow down. Pulling you tighter against him, one big hand smoothing along your spine.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

You nodded into his neck. Still wrapped around him. Still full of him. Still pulsing with aftershocks.

You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want him to, either.

So he stayed there—cock still buried inside you, heart pounding against yours—and let you breathe together.

Joel shifted under you with a quiet grunt. One hand splayed across your back, the other gripping your hip as he rolled you both onto your sides. You landed with your face buried in his neck, your legs tangled with his, his cock still hard and still buried deep inside you.

You gasped at the movement—still sensitive, still twitching from the last wave of pleasure. His hands gentled instantly, rubbing soft circles into your spine.

“You okay?” he murmured, lips brushing your hair.

You nodded, breath catching as his hips rolled, just slightly, nudging deeper. “Too good.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his breath warm on your cheek.

But he was still inside you. Still thick and pulsing.

You felt it now—the way he was holding himself back. The strain in his arms, the tightness in his jaw. His body was shuddering with restraint, his cock twitching inside you every time you clenched around him.

“You haven’t come,” you whispered.

Joel’s jaw flexed. He didn’t deny it.

You lifted your head, lips brushing his. “Why’re you holding back?”

His voice came out ragged. “You came so hard, baby. Felt you shake all over me. Just… wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Your heart fluttered, warm and aching. But you weren’t finished with him. Not like this.

You rolled your hips, slow, grinding your slick heat down over his cock. He hissed through his teeth.

“I’m not glass, Joel,” you whispered. “Don’t hold back.”

He groaned—low and wrecked—and kissed you.

It was slower this time, but no less intense. His mouth claimed yours in long, deep drags, tongue sliding against yours, hands gripping your waist as he started to move again.

You moaned into his mouth as he thrust. Still tight from your orgasm, your cunt clung to him with each stroke, slick and hot and perfect.

He fucked you slow, chest to chest, breath mingling, bodies sliding together in the dark.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You’re still squeezin’ me like that.”

Your arms curled around his shoulders. “I want you to come,” you said against his mouth. “Want to feel it.”

His hips snapped harder, rhythm faltering, every thrust heavier now. You kissed his jaw, his throat, anything you could reach.

Joel buried his face in your neck and groaned—loud, raw, the sound of a man losing his grip.

And then he was there.

He growled your name like a prayer and shoved in deep, holding you flush as he came—hot and thick, pulsing inside you with a low, broken moan.

You held him through it, stroking his back, whispering, “There you go. That’s it.”

He trembled. He kissed you again, slower now, panting between breaths.

When he finally stopped moving, both of you a tangle of sweat and skin and breath, he stayed right where he was—inside you, heart pounding against yours.

Joel didn’t move at first.

He stayed deep inside you, chest to chest, limbs tangled up like ivy. Your legs around his hips, your arms looped around his shoulders. His breathing was still rough in your ear, his cock twitching in the slick heat of you—spent but still buried, still wanting to stay where it was warm and safe.

You could feel the thump of his heartbeat, steadying slowly against yours. His fingers brushed up and down your spine, more of a reflex now than anything else. Like he needed the contact to remind himself this wasn’t a dream.

Neither of you spoke. There wasn’t a need.

Eventually—eventually—Joel groaned low in his throat, the sound lazy and half-exhausted. He kissed your jaw, your temple, then finally lifted himself just enough to look at you.

“Alright?” he murmured.

You nodded, eyes still half-lidded. “Better than.”

He leaned in and kissed you one more time—soft and lingering—before his hips eased back.

He pulled out slowly. You both gasped at the drag, the loss of warmth. A wet heat followed immediately, thick and unmistakable, sliding down your thighs.

The air shifted. Joel caught sight of the mess soaking the sheets beneath you—your combined slick, his come leaking from where you’d been joined.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed.

Something about his voice—gravel and reverence, wrapped in that low Southern drawl—made you smile.

You rolled onto your stomach without thinking, cheek pressed to the pillow, your back arched in a long, lazy stretch. Limbs limp. Skin damp. Sated.

You exhaled softly, content and open, your bare ass high and warm in the soft light. The wet patch cooled beneath your belly, sticky and raw, but you didn’t care.

Joel let out another quiet groan behind you—half appreciation, half disbelief.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You wriggled your hips playfully, just enough to hear the low curse that followed.

“You’re tryin’ to kill me,” he said.

“Mm,” you hummed, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one who did all the damage.”

You felt the bed dip as he knelt beside you, large hands smoothing along the back of your thigh, then your lower back. Gentle, slow touches, not for arousal—just touch.

His fingers paused where your legs were still slick, and you felt him rub his thumb through the mess there, slow and soft.

“You want me to clean you up?” he asked.

Your eyes stayed closed. “Not yet.”

He kissed the small of your back, breath warm. “Okay.”

Then he lay down beside you, pulling you close, wrapping one arm around your waist from behind, his chest to your spine. You stayed there together in the dark, the air warm with sweat and sex and something deeper neither of you dared name just yet.