sugarbrat

pairing: soft dom!joel x f!reader wc: 12k (i am so sorry)

summary: using tommy to make joel jealous seemed harmless enough- but joel had other plans...

warnings: 18+ mdni, jackson au, big age gap (mid 50s and mid 20s), soft dom!joel, protective!joel, pervy!tommy, clingy/needy reader, possessiveness, jealousy as foreplay, praise kink, daddy kink (nickname only used once), rough sex, oral sex (m receiving), food play, oral fixation, deepthroating, gagging, spit, tears during oral, hair pulling, throat holding, spanking mention, semi-public risk, unprotected p-in-v sex

a/n: i had a dream ab going down on joel so this is what transpired... i swear after this i'm limiting myself to fics under 6k words- bc its physically impossible for me to write something under 11k words... o.O anyway, i hope yall enjoy! i'll be going through my requests soon so feel free to ask/submit any ideas or whatever while they're open! i love to hear from you guys!!! ♡♡ also: i only proofread this like once...:/

now playing... the giver - chappell roan

Joel Miller tells you no at least ten times a day. Though you can’t remember the last time he actually meant it.

 No, you can’t follow him to the stables when he has work to finish. No, you don’t need help fastening every little button on your dress. No, he isn’t carrying you upstairs simply because your feet hurt.

Then you look at him long enough, or curl both your hands around his wrist, or let your lip poke out the way he claims stopped working months ago.

And that usually ends with you perched nearby while he works, his hands working at the front of your dress, or one thick arm hooked under your knees while he mutters something about how spoiled you’ve gotten.

As if he isn’t directly responsible for it.

Joel has catered to every clingy little impulse you possess and kept the reason perfectly hidden from the rest of Jackson.

Nobody knows why you’re always the first person he searches for when he returns through the gates. They don’t know that the key in his pocket belongs to the house you practically live in now, or that half the clothes folded inside his dresser are yours.

And they certainly don’t know what happens after you slip through his backdoor each night.

You tried to hide your clinginess at first.

Because people in Jackson are nosy, and the difference between you and Joel was already impossible to miss. You figured sitting in his lap or hanging from his arm would have the whole town whispering before you even made it through dinner.

Instead, everyone came to the same wrong conclusion.

They thought Joel was taking care of you.

Not fucking you. Not keeping your underwear beneath his pillow because you had a habit of leaving without them.

They thought he was taking care of you in the respectable, almost parental way an older man might look after a younger girl who had become too attached to him. They thought you’d attached yourself to Joel because he was older and dependable and that he indulged in you because refusing a pretty girl young enough to be his daughter was just one of the few survival skills he never learned.

And once they decided that, they stopped examining any of it.

So you stopped caring who saw you cling to him.

Joel, however, remained careful enough for the both of you.

He won’t kiss you in public, and he’d probably drag you home by the back of your dress if you ever tried. But that doesn’t stop you from winding both your arms around his bicep while he talks to someone about patrol duties or resting your head in his shoulder during dinner. You press your face into his chest whenever patrol keeps him gone too long. You stand between his spread knees at community meetings, close enough to feel his breath against your neck while his hand remains respectably above your waist.

Everyone just thinks you’re seeking comfort from him.

They don’t know that same hand held your face against the mattress the night before.

People smile whenever they catch you tucked under Joel’s arm—they think it’s cute. Tommy rolls his eyes and calls you his brother’s spoiled little girl, usually earning a glare from Joel and an embarrassing thrill between your legs.

Women old enough to remember life before the outbreak tell you how lucky you are to have a man like Joel watching over you, a father figure — unaware that he had you crying into his pillow before breakfast for reasons you absolutely cannot divulge to them.

The worst part is how easily you’ve begun taking advantage of it.

You can sit pressed against Joel’s side at the Tipsy Bison with your thighs fitted between his and nobody gives you a second glance. You can play with his fingers under the table, tracing the thick knuckles that were inside you that morning, while everyone just assumes you needed another bit of reassurance. Once, you even fell asleep with your head in his lap. Joel stroked your hair the entire time, scowling down at you because he knew exactly what you were doing.

Nobody noticed the way his fingers closed around a handful of it when you smiled up at him.

They just saw an older man indulging in the poor girl who followed him everywhere like a lost puppy. They didn’t see the erection you could feel beneath your cheek or the warning in his eyes when you rubbed against it.

Yet, those warnings were rarely empty.

He liked making you pay for taking advantage of everyone’s assumptions about the two of you.

If your hand wandered too high beneath the table at the community dinner, he’d wait until he got you home to bend you across his lap and redden your ass. If you accidentally mentioned waking up in his bed within Tommy’s hearing, he made you stand against the bedroom wall with your dress gathered around your waist while he decided what to do with you. And if you managed to sleepily call him daddy in front of half the Tipsy Bison, he’d make you repeat it into his pillow until it was the only word you could manage.

But It was hardly a punishment when both of you knew you misbehaved because you wanted exactly that.

You loved the change in him once you were behind a locked door. He could pin both your wrists above your head with one hand, then use the other to sweep your hair away from your face when it stuck to your lips. His knees forced your legs apart whenever they tried to close around him, but he kissed the tears from under your eyes and told you what a good girl you were for  taking him so well.

Sometimes he fucked you hard enough to drive the bedframe against the wall, his palm covering your mouth while he reminded you that the neighbors already paid too much attention to who came and went from his house. Even then, his thumb passed over your cheek, his forehead rested against yours, and every filthy command ended with baby or sweetheart.

But his roughness just came naturally to him.

 Joel was a big man with hands that could circle both your wrists and a cock that made your body ache the next morning, even on the nights the sex was slow and gentle. He left fingerprints around your thighs when he held them open. His bread scraped the sensitive skin between your legs raw. Sometimes his hips would strike hard enough to bruise, especially when you clenched around him and his restraint slipped for a few strokes.

But he never took more than he believed you could handle, and he never took anything purely because he wanted it.

You loved that in the beginning. You still do. You love how thoroughly Joel cares for you, how naturally his body closes around yours afterward, how he cleans you up and pulls the blankets beneath your chin. You love falling asleep sore between your legs with his hands spread across your belly.

You don’t have to do anything besides lie beneath him and accept it.

But that’s exactly the problem.

You wanted to make Joel feel good for once.

You wanted to learn his body as thoroughly as he had learned yours—to know what touch made his hips jerk, which drag of your tongue made him lose his train of thought, which gag would finally send him over the edge.

But he’d never even let you taste him.

The closest you ever got was a kiss from his after he’d finished in you then went down on you after.

Joel has never allowed you to kneel between his leg and take him into your mouth. He’d never stood over you with his hand fisted in your hair and taught you how to take him without choking. You’d spent countless nights imagining him using your mouth until tears ran down your cheeks, imagined what he’d look like when you’d glance up to find every trace of patience gone from his face.

He refused to let the fantasy get any further than that.

He always claimed he didn’t need it.

That was the word he always used. Need. Like it was air or water.

And you’d tried often enough to know his refusal had nothing to do with him disliking the idea. His entire body would betray him the few times you managed to get on your knees for him. His thighs would go rigid, his cock would thicken behind the seam of his jeans, and his fingers would flex at the sides of his thighs like he was already imagining a handful of your hair.

Once, you’d actually managed to get to your knees and open his belt before he stopped you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you with his jaw clenched while you rubbed your cheek helplessly over the bulge in his pants. The dark patch at the tip grew against your lips as you pressed a kiss to it through the fabric, and the sound that tore from his chest kept you awake thinking about it for days.

“Teach me, Joel,” you whined, rubbing your cheek over the length trapped inside his jeans again. “I promise I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

His refusal was already there, but it looked painfully close to breaking.

A muscle jumped beside his mouth. His lips parted each time yours brushed the damp patch slowly spreading over his zipper, then they’d press together again before any sound could escape. One of his hands gripped the edge of the mattress hard enough to bleach his knuckles. The other hung beside your head, fingers opening and closing as his eyes followed every pass of your mouth across his cock.

You tipped your face toward him without lifting your chin from his crotch. Your eyes were enormous and pleading from where you were, your lashes fluttering with every blink. And he watched every single one of them. You could almost see him imagining those lashes wet and clumped together while he held you down on him.

“Please, Joel. Just let me try,” you begged. “Let me show you how bad I want it.”

His fist gripped at the edge of the bed again when you turned your head and pressed another open-mouthed kiss to the tip. His cock jerked against your lips, and a broken grunt left his throat, followed by your name bitten out between his teeth.

You could see how badly he wanted to give in. His thighs spread another inch around your body, his heel scrapped across the floor as his hips pushed involuntarily toward your mouth. The hand hanging between your head lifted; his thick fingers passing through your hair, gathering it away from your face until his fist closed near your scalp as he stared at your mouth.

He used his free hand to drag his thumb across your lower lip, pulling it down until your mouth parted slightly. When his cock twitched again under your chin, you could’ve sworn that was is it. He was going to free himself, guide you forward, and finally let you give him everything you’d been begging to.

You leaned into his grip, already opening wider.

You watched his eyes close, and another curse leave him through clenched teeth before the fist in your hair loosened.

“No, darlin’.” His thumb passed once against your cheek again. “Get up for me.”

He slid both his hands beneath your arms and lifted you from your knees, making sure not to let them scrape against the floor. By the time he sat you on the mattress, every trace of that near-surrender had been locked away again—except for the erection still straining against his jeans.

He never let it get that far again.

After that night, Joel got better at recognizing your intentions before you could even think about dropping to the floor. You could barely kiss his belly before his hands were catching your waist and hauling you back up. If your fingers even hesitated near his belt, he laced them through his and pinned them beside your head. You never got another chance to feel his cock jerk against your lips or see how close he could come to losing himself over your mouth.

Naturally, that only made you want it more.

Usually, Joel gave you enough attention to keep frustration from consuming you. It was difficult to remain upset with him when his hands or mouth were on you, and most nights ended with you too exhausted to remember what he’d even refused.

But even that distraction had been taken from you.

Joel had barely been home. Between patrol, repairs near the gate, and whatever someone kept dragging him away to handle, you received whichever parts of him Jackson hadn’t exhausted. A kiss against your forehead while he ate supper standing at the counter. His hand squeezing your waist when he passed behind you. He barely lasted ten minutes tucked beside you in bed before his breathing evened out against your hair.

You loved those parts of him too, though.

Some of your favorite nights spent with Joel had nothing to do with sex. You were perfectly happy sitting beside him while he repaired the torn strap of his gun or sharpened the knife he kept at his hip, your legs across his lap and his thumb passing over your ankle whenever he paused. You loved watching him wash the day from his face at the bathroom sink, sleeves shoved to his elbows and gray curls wet and flattened at his temples. You even liked listening to him complain about his patrol assignments you barely understood, especially when he stopped halfway through to ask whether you were paying attention and found you staring at his hands instead.

You didn’t need him inside you every time the two of you were alone.

You did, however, need more than a sleepy kiss and the back of his shirt clutched in your fist while he passed out beside you.

By that evening, you were itching to see him. Joel had left shortly after sunrise, promising he would be home before supper, and that occupied nearly every thought you had for the rest of the day. You wondered where he was while you finished your morning chores, whether he had remembered to eat when you passed the dining hall, and how much longer he would be gone each time boots sounded against the porch.

He was due back any minute, so you had already made yourself comfortable on his couch to wait for him.

The little blue bowl that rested in your lap, filled with strawberries Joel had hulled and cut for you this morning. Sugar clung to their wet surfaces and collected with the juice at the bottom. Joel always sprinkled more over the top than necessary because he knew you liked scooping up the sweet syrup with your spoon afterward. A tall glass of milk sat within reach on the table next to you, beads of condensation running down the outside and gathering on the coaster under it.

You were lifting another sugar-covered strawberry to your mouth when boots struck the porch.

Excitement had you sitting upright before the latch even lifted. You placed the bowl beside your milk and wiped your sticky fingertips against the napkin you brought with you, already preparing to launch yourself at him the moment he came through the door.

The familiar weight of Joel’s boots crossed the threshold into the house, each step heavy enough to carry through the floorboards under your feet.

You were already pushing up from the couch when another set followed behind his. Louder. Uneven. One heel scraped across the wood before a shoulder struck the side of the door with a dull thud.

You barely had time to process the second pair of footsteps when you heard a drunken, slurred Tommy and a tired, very irritated Joel.

“Tommy, quit draggin’ your feet. Your scrapin’ up my damn floor,” Joel groaned from the entryway.

Tommy lifted one boot and brung it down against the floorboards with a deliberate thud. Then the other. The sound traveling through the house while he laughed at his own joke, one arm still hanging across Joel’s shoulder.

“Calm down, big brother. House survived all this time without you fussin’ over it.”

“House ain’t what I’m worried about. Keep that up, you’re gonna bust your damn teeth.”

All you could hear was a distant laugh from Tommy and another groan from Joel.

You sink back against the couch, plucking the bowl from beside you and placing it back in your lap.

All afternoon, you had pictured Joel coming through that door alone.

You’d imagined wrapping yourself around him before he could even take off his boots, following him into the kitchen while he ate, and stealing back every bit of attention Jackson had kept from you that week.

Instead, one of his arms is occupied by Tommy, and the other is carrying both their coats.

The strawberry between your fingers drips pink juice onto your palm.

You return it to the bowl without finishing it.

Joel looks toward the couch as he walks in. His eyes find you immediately, passing over the half-drunken milk, the bowl in your lap, and the disappointment you haven’t managed to hide from your face. His mouth presses into a line.

“I’m sorry, dar—”

Joel pauses mid-sentence, catching the pet name before it can fully leave his mouth.

Tommy’s head turns toward him, his brows pulling together as he tries to follow an apology that wasn’t meant for him. “Sorry for what? I’m havin’ a wonderful fuckin’ time.”

Joel pays him no attention. His eyes remain fixed on you, taking in the frown at your mouth.

Tommy follows his stare.

To you—curled into the corner of the couch with your legs crossed under you, a white cotton nightgown spilling across your thighs. The hem has ridden up while you waited, leaving most of your legs bare, and dull pink juice shines across your fingertips resting against the rim of your bowl.

Tommy looks at you for what feels like ever.

“Well, hell.” His unfocused eyes travel from your bare legs to the thin straps on your shoulders before his grin spreads. “Would’ve cleaned myself up if I knew Joel had pretty company waitin’ at home.”

“Eyes up,” Joel mutters.

Tommy’s grin only widens. “They are.”

You manage a smile, wiping the strawberry juice from your fingertips.

“Hi, Tommy.”

You like Tommy. He’s funny, easy to talk to, and far more willing than Joel to entertain whatever nonsense comes into your head sometimes.

He also gets shamelessly perverted after a few drinks.

His eyes linger where they shouldn’t, innocent compliments become filthy, and he has a habit of letting his hand remain on your knee long after the joke has ended.

But you’ve never felt threatened by it. Tommy flirts with half of Jackson, and you know he’d pull away the second you genuinely asked him to—even drunk. Usually though, you just roll your eyes and enjoy him anyway.

Tonight, though, is an unfortunate night to be trapped with the drunk, handsy version of him.

Because after spending all day waiting for Joel, the sight of Tommy hanging from the man you wanted makes your chest ache with an embarrassingly childish resentment.

You don’t want to share Joel’s attention with anyone—especially his brother, who seems to be determined to require every bit of it.

“Just for tonight, kid,” he adds, giving Tommy a shove toward the nearest chair. “Ain’t in no shape to make it home.”

“Okay,” you mumble, pulling the bowl closer in your lap.

You know he wasn’t eally asking for permission. Even if he were, you could hardly insist he throw his drunken brother into the street because you’d spent the day planning to monopolize him.

Kid is what Joel calls you when other people are listening.

The word helps everyone keep believing exactly what they already believe—that you’re just the girl Joel feels responsible for, and his attention carries no desire behind it. in public, you’re kid. Occasionally, you’re sweetheart, if nobody is paying enough attention to question it. Never baby, though.. Never his pretty girl. And definitely never the filthy names he presses against your ear while his cock is buried inside you.

Usually, you enjoy the deceit. There’s a private thrill in hearing Joel call you kid while his hand rests innocently on your shoulder, knowing that same hand would close around your throat once he got you alone.

Tonight, it only reminds him that you won’t be getting him alone.

Joel deposits Tommy in the chair and disappears into the kitchen for water. The moment his back is turned, Tommy is pushing himself upright and dropping onto the couch next to you.

He lands hard enough to jostle the bowl in your lap. The wet strawberries slosh against the side, and you catch it with both hands before it spills across your nightgown.

“Tommy,” Joel warns from the kitchen doorway.

“I’m sittin’ down,” he slurs.

“Put you in a chair for a reason.”

“Yeah, and I left it for a better one.”

You can tell Joel wants to argue back, but stops when he realizes it’s not worth the fight with a drunken Tommy Miller.

Tommy stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you, taking up far more room than he needs to—typical. His thigh presses against your folded legs, so you draw them closer to you, but the couch is small and he doesn’t seem to notice—or care—that he’s crowded you farther into the corner.

He looks down at your bowl. “What’ve you got there?”

Your eyes bounce between him and the bowl, one eyebrow slightly raised but not enough for him to notice.

“Just a snack,” you reply, plainly. “Strawberries and some milk.”

“I can see that.” He lifts his eyes back to yours as he nods toward the bowl. “You mind?”

Your eyebrows draw together, lips parting as you search for an answer. “Uh, I—”

You barely get out the first sound out before his hands are moving.

His fingers dip into the bowl, plucking one of the largest berries from the sugar collecting at the bottom. He pops it into his mouth whole, then licks the juice from his thumb.

“Tommy,” Joel calls more sternly from the kitchen.

He glances around his shoulder; his cheek rounded around the berry. “What? She ain’t complainin’.”

You nearly do.

The berry was yours, Tommy is a little too close for comfort, and the whiskey on his breath makes your eyes water whenever he speaks.

But your eyes drift past him. To Joel standing in the kitchen doorway.

His eyes are bouncing between Tommy’s fingers in your bowl, and you curled into the corner of the couch.

For the first time all night, Joel’s attention was on you.

He’d spent the entire week giving you distracted kisses and whatever parts of him Jackson hadn’t exhausted. Tonight, after waiting all day to finally have him alone, he arrived with his drunken brother hanging from his arm.

Now all it takes is one stolen strawberry for him to watch every movement on his couch.

The complaint dies on your tongue.

Because you like Tommy. You do. He’s generous, knows how to make you laugh, and is usually harmless beneath all the drunken flirting. Letting him steal a strawberry isn’t betrayal.

If it irritates Joel, that’s merely an added benefit.

So when Tommy asks what you’ve done all day, you answer. When he tells you your nightgown is too pretty for sitting around in Joel’s house, you laugh and glance toward the kitchen to see whether Joel heard him. You even let him steal two more strawberries, leaving the bowl in reaching distance despite having plenty of time to move it.

You aren’t flirting with him.

You’re simply not making any effort to discourage him.

There’s a difference.

Probably.

Joel returns a few minutes later with a glass of water and a damp cloth. He gives Tommy the water first, then tosses the cloth into his lap.

“Drink. Clean yourself up.”

Tommy wipes it once across his mouth before dropping it onto his knee. “She’s been keepin’ me company.”

Joel answers with half grunt, half laugh as his eyes travel over the arm stretched behind you, Tommy’s leg pressing into yours, and the half empty bowl resting between the two of you. The muscles beside his mouth draw taut, but all he does is nod toward the water.

Tommy drinks half before becoming distracted again.

“You always dress like this for him?” he asks you.

Your fingers pause against the rim of your bowl.

“Quit it,” Joel says firmly.

“What?” Tommy turns toward Joel, attempting an innocence his grin immediately ruins. “Just tellin’ her she looks nice.”

“You said it. Now move on.”

Tommy gives you a conspiratorial grin, treating Joel’s irritation as another private joke between the two of you. “He always this bossy with you?”

Your eyes lift to Joel before you answer, making sure he’s watching.

 “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Tommy repeats with a laugh. His hand drops onto your knee as if you’ve shared a joke at Joel’s expense. “Poor thing.”

Joel does not find the joke nearly as funny.

Tommy’s palm remains there, and this time, you don’t pull your leg away.

Your fingertips continue circling the rim of the sticky bowl while you watch Joel take Tommy’s abandoned glass from him.  The base strikes the wood hard, sending a ring through the room.

“Hands to you damn self, Tommy.”

Tommy glances down as if he’s only just discovered where his hand ended up. “Jesus, Joel. It’s her knee.”

“And it don’t belong to you.”

The words leave him too quickly.

No one speak after that.  Tommy’s eyes narrow as he looks between the two of you, his drunken mind trying to catch hold of whatever slipped beneath Joel’s answer.

But Joel recovers first.

“You’re twice her size, drunk off your ass, and crowdin’ her into the damn wall,” he adds. “Move.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him.

Joel’s head snaps to yours.

You try to look innocent, although the thrill running through you probably shows. Joel stares long enough to make you wonder whether he already knows what game you’re playing.

Tommy gives your knee a tiny squeeze. “See? She’s fine.”

“Move,” Joel repeats.

Tommy lift his hands in surrender then scoots several inches away. Joel watches until a respectable amount of couch appears between you. Then he collects their coats and heads upstairs, probably to prepare whatever space he’s going to throw Tommy in.

You immediately wish he hadn’t left.

Tommy’s attention holds very little appeal without Joel there to witness it. The fun came from watching Joel notice every inch his brother took—the space beside you, the strawberries from your bowl, your knee beneath his clammy palm.

Without Joel in the room, you’re merely sitting beside a trunk man who doesn’t seem to remember what personal space is.

Tommy is filling the empty space before Joel’s even made it halfway up the stairs.

He asks whether you have anyone waiting for you at home, then tells you a girl who looks the way you do shouldn’t spend her night alone. You answer him with enough sweetness to keep him talking, but your attention remains on the stars.

You could tell him to move. You know that.

The trouble is that you’ve spent the last ten minutes smiling at him.

You laughed at his drunken compliments, let him stick his fingers in your bowl and eat from it, and left your leg beneath his hand after Joel told him to remove it. Pushing him away the instant Joel left would make it embarrassingly clear that none of this had ever been about Tommy.

So you let him continue. Only until Joel comes back.

Then Tommy steals his fourth strawberry.

And this time, instead of reaching into the bowl, he takes it directly from your sticky fingers. His fingertips drag across yours, collecting the sugar and juice left behind.

“You gonna eat all these yourself, sweetheart?” he asks, dangling it between your fingers.

You manage a laugh. “I was planning to.”

He sucks his teeth, popping it into his mouth. “Thought Joel taught you to share.”

The words send an uncomfortable pulse through you. Tommy couldn’t possibly know what Joel has taught you, yet your heart still skips a beat at the thought.

Tommy laughs when he sees your reaction. “Aw, don’t get shy now.”

“I’m not shy,” you insist.

“You are,” he teases as he leans closer. “Face gives you away.”

Joel’s boots cross the floor above you.

You lift the bowl out of Tommy’s reach when he tries to take another strawberry, but your smile ruins the refusal. He follows the bowl across your body, his hand pressing into your thigh as he reaches farther.

“Tommy,” Joel shouts. “What the hell did I just tell your ass?”

His words crack across the room.

Joel appears at the foot of the stairs, a folded blanket crushed beneath one arm. His eyes are fixed on Tommy’s palm against your thigh, and the tendons along the back of his free hand stand out where his fingers have curled into a fist.

Tommy sits back, more startled by Joel’s tone than ashamed. “Christ, Joel. We’re just talkin’.”

“Then you can do it from over there.” Joel points toward the opposite end of the couch. “Move your ass.”

Tommy lets out a loud laugh and looks at you for support. “She ain’t asked me to stop.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” he sneers. Joel strides farther into the room and drops the blanket onto the chair.

“You’re drunk, you’ve got her crowded into a corner, and I’ve already told you to leave her alone. What part’re you havin’ trouble understandin’?”

“Joel, it’s okay,” you say, smoothing your nightgown over your knees.

Tommy lifts his eyebrows at him, smug. “See? She said it’s—”

“No, it ain’t.” Joel cuts him off so quickly that the words nearly overlap. Then he catches himself, his jaw working before he looks back at Tommy and continues. “You’re makin’ an ass of yourself. Sit over there, drink your water, and keep your damn hands to yourself.”

Tommy stares at him for a second, then lifts both his hands with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “All right. Jesus. Didn’t realize she needed a damn guard dog.”

“She don’t,” Joel replies. “You just need somebody remindin’ you how to behave.”

Tommy mutters something under his breath as he scoots across the couch angrily, sloshing the remaining water across his knuckles in the process.

The relief you feel when his thigh leaves yours is almost immediate.

You had enjoyed Joel’s reaction for more than you enjoyed the hand that caused it. Tommy’s touch left behind a little more than the fading pressure of his palm. But Joel’s jealousy has your underwear clinging to you under your nightgown. And Joel looks about ready to break Tommy’s hand.

The sight sends another embarrassing throb between your legs.

You’ve spent days desperate for his attention, and now every bit of it is fixed on you—the fist at his side, the anger spread across his face, the possessiveness he has no respectable way to explain. Tommy’s palm has already left your thigh, but Joel’s reaction makes you press them together beneath your nightgown.

 You hadn’t meant to cause an argument between them.

But you can’t pretend you’re sorry to discover how easily another man’s interest strips away Joel’s restraint.

Joel glances at you once more before returning to the kitchen. His eyes pause on the fabric gathered over your thigh.

You hold his stare while you smooth the nightgown back over your legs.

His eyes narrow at you.

The difference is minor enough that Tommy misses it. But you don’t. You can tell Joel is beginning to suspect you aren’t quite as uncomfortable as he assumed.

Someone sensible would stop there.

But you spent all week being sensible.

Tommy behaves for less than a minute.

He finishes off his water, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and watches Joel disappear around the kitchen doorway then his attention is back on you.

“Still allowed to talk to you, sweetheart?”

You glance toward the kitchen. Joel has his back to the room, but the rigid line of his shoulders tells you he’s definitely listening.

“Depends,” you say, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “You wanna get yelled at again?”

Tommy laughs and leans closer despite Joel’s warning. “Might be worth it.”

You should end the game. You’ve already gotten what you wanted: Joel is angry, attentive, and painfully aware of every inch between you and his brother.

Then Joel looks over his shoulder.

The directness of his stare nearly wipes the smile clean from your face. You immediately reach for the glass next to you, hoping it’ll hide whatever guilt he might read in your expression. It gives your hands an innocent place to go too—like you’re only sitting there finishing your snack, completely unaware of the game you’ve been playing.

The glass is still cold against your sticky fingers, wet enough with condensation that it nearly slips from your grip. You bring it to your lips and drink much faster than you need to, swallowing mouthful after mouthful while Joe’s eyes lay into you from across the room.

The milk catches at the corner of your lips when you tip the glass too far. One drop slips over your chin and trails down the front of your throat. Another follows, reaching the neckline of your nightgown before disappearing beneath the white cotton. A small splash darkens the fabric over your chest, leaving it damp enough to cling to your skin.

By the time you lower it, the cold has begun to ache behind your teeth.

And Tommy’s attention is no longer on your face.

His eyes have followed the wet path down your throat and stopped on the darkened patch across your chest. The playful grin disappears for a second, replaced by an intent stare that makes your fingers close harder around the glass.

“Spilled a little,” he says.

His tongue passes across his bottom lip before he looks back at your mouth. Another drop remains in the corner.

He leans across the space he’d been ordered to leave between you. “Here. Lemme help you, sweetheart.”

You start lifting your hand, mainly because your first instinct is to wipe it away yourself. Then your eyes drift toward the kitchen doorway.

Joel’s watching again, one hand planted against the counter and his entire body turned toward the couch.

Your hand pauses halfway to your face.

That single moment of hesitation is all Tommy needs. His thumb passes across the corner of your lips, collecting the milk. And instead of pulling back, he drags the pad of it along your lower lip, his eyes following the motion.

Joel is out of the kitchen before Tommy’s hand can leave your face.

His fingers lock around Tommy’s wrist and wrench his hand from your mouth so quickly that the couch jolts beneath you. The milk on Tommy’s thumb smears across his knuckle as Joel twists it away from your face.

“Goddamnit, Tommy.” Each word forces its way through his teeth. “What the hell’d I’d tell your ass?”

Tommy rocks sideways, his free hand catching on the couch. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Joel drags him upright, Tommy’s knee striking the table on the way up, rattling your glass and sending milk over its rim, but Joel doesn’t even glance in its direction.

“I’ve told you three goddamn times to keep your hands off her.”

“I wiped her damn mouth, Joel,” Tommy curses back.

“You put your hands on her mouth.” Joel gives his wrist another yank when Tommy tries to pull free. “After I told you to leave her alone.”

Tommy’s face pinches. “You’re gonna break my fuckin’ arm.”

“The quit fightin’ me,” Joel scolds, giving his wrist another wrench.

Joel releases his wrist only to shove him back by the chest. Tommy stumbles into the table, and Joel follows, keeping his body planted between the two of you. His hands curl into fists, and the veins stand out along his forearms because of it, and each breath pushes hard through his nose as he stares his brother down.

You’ve seen Joel angry before. You’ve watched him handle men outside the gates and silence entire rooms with a look. He usually keeps that part of himself buried around you.

It’s overflowing at the surface now.

Tommy rubs the inside of his wrist. “She ain’t even tell me to stop.”

“Don’t care. I did.”

“Since when do you get to decide who puts their hands on her?”

Joel steps into him again. “Since your drunk ass forgot how to listen.”

Tommy turns toward you now. “She ain’t looked too bothered all night.”

Joel’s head turns.

You’re still sitting on the couch with the bowl clutched against your stomach and milk drying across the front of your nightgown. His eyes move from the damp fabric to your lips, then rise to meet yours.

He knows.

You see the exact second every polite laugh, every strawberry you let Tommy steal, and every glance you sent towards the kitchen arranges itself inside his head.

You should feel guilty now that he’s caught you. Instead, the knowledge that Joel understood exactly how bad you wanted his jealousy, sends another heartbeat between your legs.

“I’m okay, Joel,” you tell him, attempting the same innocent expression that usually earns you whatever you want.

His eyes narrow fast.

“Yeah,” he replies, turning back toward Tommy. “I can see that.”

You suck in your lip to keep from smirking.

Tommy’s eyes move between you. The alcohol no longer clouds all of his attention as he looks between Joel standing in front of you and the guilt threatening to betray your performance.

“Why do you care so damn much?” Tommy asks.

Joel goes rigid.

For half a second, you think he might answer honestly. His lips pull back from his teeth, and his chest expands under his shirt as every ugly, possessive word he can’t say collects behind them.

Then his hand closes around the back of Tommy’s neck.

“Because you’re embarassin’ yourself, pawnin’ at a girl half your age.” He turns Tommy toward the stairs with his hand still locked around the back of his neck. “You’re done. Get upstairs.”

“Get your hands off me,” Tommy hisses.

Joel shoves him onto the first step. “Start walkin’ then.”

Tommy turns as though he intends to argue again. But Joel catches a fistful of his shirt and slams him against the staircase railing, bracing his forearm across his chest. The impact knocks the remaining fight from Tommy’s face.

“You’re gonna go upstairs,” Joel tells him, each word pressed through his clenched jaw. “You’re gonna get in bed, and you’re gonna stay there until you’re sober enough to remember how a grown man keeps his hands to himself. You understand me?”

Tommy just stares at him.

Joel drives his forearm harder against his chest. “Asked you a question.”

“Yeah. Fine,” Tommy replies reluctantly.

“Upstairs then.”

Joel releases him with a shove that nearly sends him to his knees on the stairs. Tommy grabs the railing, curses, and begins his ascent. His boots strike every step unevenly, but Joel remains directly behind him, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt whenever he moves too slowly.

Before they disappear, Joel glances over his shoulder at you.

His eyes drop to the milk staining your nightgown, then return to your face.

The warning there promises he hasn’t forgotten your part in this.

A small knot of guilt forms under your ribs as you listen to Joel force Tommy up the remaining stairs. You hadn’t intended for the game to end with his wrist nearly twisted behind his back. You only wanted Joel to notice. To look at you with the same hunger he kept denying whenever you tried to please him.

Judging by the anger he carried upstairs, you definitely accomplished that.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t be another night spent curled against Joel’s back while he slept. Maybe he’d finally give you more than a distracted kiss and ten exhausted minutes under him. The possibility of that makes it difficult to regret much of anything.

A bedroom door slams overhead. Joel’s boots cross the floor once, followed by the scrape of furniture being dragged in front of the door. Tommy protests, but Joel just tells him to sleep it off, and then the house goes silent.

You remain on the couch with your bowl pressed against your stomach while milk dries against your throat and makes the front of your nightgown stay clinging to your chest. Your lips still carry the strange phantom of Tommy’s thumb, but the sensation disappears when Joel begins descending the stairs.

He looks furious when he reaches the bottom.

His sleeves are shoved past his elbows, exposing the veins raised along his forearms. His gray curls lie disordered across his forehead, and the first buttons of his shirt have been pulled open during the struggle. His eyes find you immediately.

“Kitchen.” He nods toward the bowl in your lap and the glass on the table. “Bring your dishes.”

Your guilt returns. But still, you collect both and follow him.

When you enter, Joel doesn’t look at you. He only takes the dishes from your hands and places them beside the sink. The strawberries slide through their pink syrup when the bowl meets the counter, filling the room with their sugary scent.

Then he catches you around the waist.

Your feet leave the floor in one easy motion. He sits you on the counter and steps between your dangling knees, already reaching for your face.

“Lemme see.”

His fingers cup your jaw and turn your head toward the light. He wets his thumb with his tongue before passing it over the corner of your mouth where Tommy touched you. Then down the line of the dried milk beneath your chin and down your throat. His eyes travel over every inch of skin he uncovers.

“He touch you anywhere else?”

You shake your head. “Just my leg.”

He pushes your nightgown above your knee and spreads his hand across the place Tommy’s palm had rested. There’s no mark for him to find—of course—but after one final pass of his thumb over your thigh, the concern leaves his face.

And the anger stays.

His jaw clenches under his beard. “You like him touchin’ you?”

Your eyebrows lift in confusion, and all you can do is stare at him. You thought Joel had already understood the game; surely, he hadn’t watched you glance toward him after every stolen strawberry and mistaken any of that for genuine interest in Tommy.

“No.” Your answer comes out breathless with a surprise. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Sure as hell looked like you did.”

“Well, I didn’t.” You reach for him, combing your fingers into the gray hair near his temple. “I only let him keep flirting because you were watching. I just wanted your attention.”

His head tips into your hand despite the accusation in his eyes. His cheek brushes your wrist as your fingernail passes through his curls.

“Could’ve just asked me, baby girl.”

“I have been asking.” Your lips push into a pout, but then you notice how firmly his jaw remains set. The possibility that you genuinely hurt him drains the satisfaction from your face.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you this upset,” you plead. “I just missed you, and then you came home with Tommy, and I thought you weren’t going to want me tonight either.”

His head rises under your grasp. He draws your face toward his, forcing your eyes back to him while his other palm closes around the inside of your thigh.

“Well, you got my attention, didn’t you, darlin’?” His thumb presses into your lower lip. “Had me watchin’ every time he looked at you. Every time he put his hands where they didn’t belong.”

Your knees part farther as he moves between them.

“Seems to me you need a lesson in how to ask for my attention,” he scolds, the anger in his face and voice tempered by the hand caressing your thigh. “Hm?”

Your eyebrows draw together as you search his face. A lesson could mean a number of things with Joel, and the fingers moving higher under your nightgown gives you very little indication of which one he has in mind. Still, you nod uncertaintly.

He catches your bottom lip beneath his thumb and pulls it down. “Use your words.”

“Mhm,” you whisper, your eyes dropping to his mouth. “Y-yeah.”

“S’right.” His grip eases under your chin, his thumb soothing the place he just pressed into.

“Been beggin’ me to teach you somethin’,” he hums. “Figure we’ll start with that mouth you used to get yourself in trouble.”

The promise hidden beneath his words, sends a thrill through you. Your lips part around a hopeful, little breath and both your hands close around his wrist.

“Really?” You can’t stop the smile beginning to spread. “You’re really gonna let me—”

Joel pulls away before you can finish.

The loss of his body between your thighs leaves you leaning forward on the counter. He takes one step back, gives you enough room to move, and nods towards the floor between his boots.

“Get on your knees.”

Your smile disappears beneath a startled blink.

You had begged to hear those exact words for forever. Still, their abruptness catches you unprepared. Joel has always lifted you from the floor whenever you tried kneeling for him. Now he stands over you expecting obedience, his shirt partly open in his eyes fixed on your face.

And Tommy is directly upstairs. If the floorboards carry even half as much sound upward as they carried his drunken cursing down, he’d be able to hear everything.

But somehow that risk only makes him more eager.

“Now?” you ask.

A hint of affection finally breaks through his stern expression. He reaches for you again, brushing your hair behind your ear before his fingertips trail under your jaw.

“Now, baby.” His thumb passes over your cheek. “C’mon. Been waitin’ so patiently for me, haven’t you?”

You nod eagerly.

He takes your hands as you slide from the counter. He keeps hold of them while you lower yourself, supporting your weight until both of your knees hit the tile. The floor is cold under your skin, but the small discomfort barely lasts once he’s standing above you.

“There.” He smooths your nightgown over your shoulders where the straps have fallen around your arms. His palm remains on the crown of your head afterward, stroking across your hair. “So pretty, darlin’.”

His praise pulls a small smile across your face. You lean into his palm, your cheek brushing the inside of his wrist as your knees inch closer to his boots.

You curl your hands around his calves, as you look up at him, unable to stop touching him now that he’s finally put you where you spent weeks waiting to be. The worn denim under your palms carries the heat of his body; your fingers climb toward his knees until he catches one hand and presses a kiss into its sticky center.

“Eager little thing.” His lips brush your fingertips as he speaks. “Haven’t even told you what to do yet.”

“I know.” You tuck your bottom lip in between your teeth. “Just wanna be good for you.”

“You will be.” He places your hand against your thigh, then gathers your hair behind your head. He twists the length around his fist without pulling, keeping it away from your face. “Gonna teach you. All you gotta do it listen.”

“I’ll listen.”

“I know you will.”

His faith in you makes your chest ache.

Joel brushes his knuckles over your temple, then lets his hand travel down to cup your cheek. The touch carries none of the anger from moments earlier. He holds you as carefully as he does after sex, his thumb moving beneath your eye while he studies your excitement.

“Still got a lesson to learn, baby doll.” His thumb caresses your cheek, while the rest of his hand holds your jaw firmly, keeping your face tipped toward him. “You asked me to teach you, so you listen and take exactly what I give you. Understand?”

You nod, your lashes fluttering faster now.

“Good girl,” he draws out.

Only then does he reach for his belt.

The buckle opens with a muted click above you. Your eyes follow his hands as he pulls the leather free and lets it hang open on either side of his jeans. He takes his time with the button, watching your expression while he lowers the zipper.

Your fingers curl into the denim covering his thigh as he works open the front of his jeans. His eyes drop to your hand, watching it and grip him harder while the zipper begins traveling down.

“Both hands behind your back.”

His command catches you by surprise. You’d assumed he would teach you how to touch him first—guide your hand around the length of him and show you what pressure he liked. Instead, he intends to leave you with nothing except your mouth and whatever he decides to give it.

You hesitate for barely a second before releasing his thigh. Both arms fold obediently behind you, your fingers clasping together against your spine.

He watches you arrange yourself before pushing his jeans lower on his hips.

“Perfect,” he praises, reaching down to sweep more hair away from your face. “You stay just like that for me.”

Your eyes follow his free hand as he finishes popping open the last button on his jeans. The loosened denim has barely begun to separate when a floorboard creeks above the kitchen.

Both of your heads snap upward.

Another groan travels through the wood followed by the muffled scrap of Tommy moving around in the bedroom.

Your face immediately flushes hot.

It was thrilling when he was only a distant threat upstairs. But now, hearing exactly how little separated him from the kitchen reminds you exactly what would happen if he came down here.

There would be no innocent explanation for finding you on your knees with your hands tucked behind your back while his brother stood over you with his pants open.

Tommy would know.

And by morning, he might not be the only one.

You tip your face toward Joel, your eyes wide and searching. “What if he hears us?” you ask nervously. “What if he comes—”

Joel’s palm curved around your cheek, covering nearly half your face as his thumb passes under your lashes. He listens until the floorboards stop creaking above and then returns his attention back to you.

“Then you better not give him a reason to come lookin’.” His pale caresses your cheek again. “Keep that pretty little mouth quiet.”

Your eyes widen a little, suddenly suspecting he intends to test exactly how quiet you can be.

You nod beneath his hand regardless, pressing your lips together around the breath threatening to escape. The danger upstairs now only makes you more eager to prove you can listen.

A small smirk crosses his lip.

His hand lingers against your head while the other finally pushes his jeans and underwear down far enough to free himself.

His cock springs from the waistband and juts rigidly upward, bobbing once before the thick shaft angles toward his stomach. The head is swollen and flushed, a clear bead of precum already shining at the slit under the kitchen light.

Your eyes widen again.

From your knees, all of him seems bigger. His thighs frame your body on either side, blocking anything else beside him. His shirt hangs open above you, exposing his belly and the dark hair interrupted by thin streaks of gray. Even his hands look bigger from down here—one tangled at the back of your head, the other wrapping around the base of his cock.

You stare without attempting to hide it.

And from down here, his cock looks even bigger than it feels inside you. His thick shaft extends past his fist, veined and flushed, with a slight curve toward his stomach. The pale scar crosses one side near the base—the same one you’ve blindly traced with your fingertips in bed—and a few silver strands break through the dark hair surrounding it. His hand can’t even fully close around himself. His swollen head shines only mere inches from your face, and the thought of fitting all of him in your mouth makes your jaw ache, but still, your tongue presses forward inside your mouth at the thought of finally tasting him.

You lean forward on instinct.

The hand he has fisted in your hair tightens and closes near the roots, stopping you several inches away.

“Be patient.”

“I know,” you whine, your body still leaning forward, despite the fist in your hair pulling you back. “But I’ve waited so long,” you add, your eyes still fixed on the shiny tip.

“I know you have.” Joel strokes your hair once, his affection tempering the restraint of his fist. “And you’ve been such a good girl about it, haven’t you?”

You nod, though both of you know tonight has proven otherwise.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Mostly good.”

His free hand reaches past you for the bowl next to the sink. He plucks a strawberry coated in sugar and brings it toward your mouth.

“Open for me.”

Skeptical, you still obey, expecting him to feed it to you. Instead, he presses the berry against your lower lip and drags the wet fruit from one corner to the other. Sugar sticks against your skin, and red juice runs toward your chin, but his thumb follows and wipes it away before it can fall.

“Better use for that mouth.” His thumb smears the juice across your lip. “Should’ve kept it busy with me instead of flirtin’.”

Your brows furrow together again. You’re already forming another protest—ready to remind him that you hadn’t truly been flirting—when he sees it gathering on your face.

“Ah-ah.” He taps the berry against your parted lips, cutting you off before the first word escapes. “No talkin’. Thought you said you were gonna listen.”

Your mouth closes again, though the small crease remains between your brows.

Joel smooths it away with his thumb. “S’my girl. Now bite.”

You sink your teeth into the strawberry. The juice of it bursts all over your tongue and across Joel’s fingers as he holds the rest against your mouth. He waits until you finish chewing before pushing the remaining half between your lips.

“All of it,” he instructs, his fingers still at your lips.

You do as you're told.

You chew and swallow all of it before closing your mouth around his fingers, sucking the sugar from them before he can remove them.

His pupils widen down at you as he scoffs.

“Gonna make this hard for me, aren’t you?”

You release his fingers with an innocent smile. “I’m only listening.”

“Yeah?” he hums, rubbing his thumb over your lip while he strokes himself.

You nod slowly, rejecting the urge to lean forward.

His hand leaves your lip to caress your cheek again, pride and hunger crossing his face equally.

“Let’s see how well you listen with your mouth stuffed full of me.” His thumb collects a final grain of sugar from the corner of your mouth before he brings it to his lips and swipes it clean. “Don’t disappoint me, baby.”

He wraps his fist around the base of his cock and brings the swollen, pink head toward your strawberry-stained lips. He doesn’t let you take him yet. Instead, he drags the tip from one corner of your mouth to the other, smearing the clear bead of precum through the red juice already shining there.

Your lips part beneath the contact, but he pulls back before you can catch him.

“Lick your lips for me, baby girl.”

Your tongue slips out immediately. You trace the path he left across your mouth, gathering strawberry sugar and the first salty taste of him. The mixture coats your tongue—sweet at first, followed by a trace of bitterness that makes you lean forward again.

“Taste good?” he asks, stroking his knuckles over your cheek.

You nod, almost too eagerly.

The hand in your hair holds you in place. “Good. Open wide.”

You part your lips, eager, despite the nerves running through you.

A breath of laughter leaves his nose. “Wider, baby. Ain’t gonna fit in there if you’re shy about it.”

Your cheeks will burn, but you open until the side of your jaw start to ache.

“S’exactly what I needed.” His thumb strokes behind your ear, easing the pull of his fist in your hair. “Knew that greedy little mouth could make room for me.”

He presses the head onto the center of your tongue. His skin is hot against the lingering chill of the fruit in your mouth. He watches your eyes widen as his taste reaches you without the sugar hiding it this time—salt, skin, and the precum slowly leaking from the slit.

“Don’t move yet.” His thumb caresses the base of his cock while it rests heavily on your tongue. “Let yourself get used to me.”

You remain obediently still, your hands still clasped behind your back as your knees start to sting against the tile. You feel the saliva gathering beneath him and starting to slip over your lower lip.

Instinctively, you start to free one your hands to wipe the saliva gathering under your lip, but you don’t get very far. Joel is already drawing the head outward, spreading the wetness across your tongue with it before pressing it in again.

“Close.”

You do.

Your lips seal around the swollen tip, straining at the corners to accommodate the girth. He lets it rest there for a moment, letting you feel the weight of him on your tongue.

“Suck.”

Your cheeks hollow around him at the command.

Pleasure passes openly across his face when you suck for the first time. His sucks in a quick breath, and the fist holding your hair closes until a pleasant pull spreads across your scalp.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises. “Mouth was made for me, wasn’t it?”

His approval makes you suck harder.

He draws himself out until your lips catch beneath the ridge of his head, then guide you forward again, another inch filling your mouth. The thick vein under his shaft drags across your tongue, and you press upward against it, eager to discover what earns another reaction from him.

When his hips jerk toward you, you glance up. Delighted.

“Don’t look so proud.” The corner of his mouth lifts despite the scolding. “Keep your tongue right there.”

You do, tracing the vein each time he moves between your lips. He feeds you more with every pass, guiding your head through the hand wrapped around your hair. He leaves you enough time to adjust before it reaches the back of your tongue.

And your throat immediately resists.

A gag contracts around him, and your shoulders jerk. He withdraws before panic can follow, leaving only the tip resting between your lips while his palm moves in your hair.

“Easy, baby.” His thumb strokes beneath your eye, collecting the first tear before it can travel down your cheek. “Ain’t gotta take all of me yet. You’re learnin’.”

You whine around the head, frustrated with your own body.

“I know.” Joel taps the tip against your tongue. “Want it all right away, don’t you?”

You nod as much as his grip permits.

“Greedy girl.” His affection softens the tease as his hands leave his cock to pass over your cheek again. “Take what I give you. We’ll get you there.”

He presses forward again.

 You concentrate on keeping your jaw loose, and your tongue flattened under him. When the head reaches the back of your mouth again, your eyes water, but he holds you there for a second, forcing it, before drawing it out.

“Good.” His thumb catches another tear. “Again.”

He wraps his hand back around the base and guides the length of him farther into the back of your mouth.

You get farther this time.

Saliva spills over your lower lip and runs onto your chin. Your hands twitch behind your back, desperate to wipe it away or reach for his thighs, but he watches closely enough to notice.

“Hands stay where I put ‘em.”

Your fingers clasp tighter against your spine and the smirk on his face dampens your thighs.

He continues guiding you. Each pass pushes another fraction of him beyond your lips until your nose nearly reaches the dark hair at his base. Your jaw burns, and the tile is biting even harder into your knees now.

But none of it matters when Joel’s composure is starting to come apart above you.

His chest is rising fast up and down under his open shirt, the muscles across his stomach squeeze whenever you suck, and his hand has started to grip tighter into your hair, a small sting forming at the base of your scalp.

And now you finally understand why he kept refusing you.

He hadn’t been worried you would enjoy this. He’d been worried about how much he would.

That makes you moan loudly around him.

His eyes flick toward the ceiling and his grip tightens again in your scalp.

“Gotta keep those pretty noises down, baby,” he reminds you, his thumb passing across your wet cheek. “Don’t wanna get in trouble now do we?”

You shake your head at the warning, but it sends another pulse through your underwear, and you have to press your thighs together, but the position offers no release.

Joel’s eyes drop to your legs pressing together under him.

“Gettin’ off on this, aren’t you?” He eases his cock from your mouth, leaving you gasping under him. “Kneelin’ there with your hands behind your back while I use this sweet little mouth.”

You nod fast, trying to swallow whatever he left on your tongue.

He smirks. “Can see it all over that pretty face.”

He reaches past you and toward the glass of milk sweating on the counter. The condensation wets his fingers as he lifts it in front of you.

Your eyes follow the glass until it’s right between you. “What—” You choke a little on your next swallow. “What’re you—”

“Thought I said no talkin’?”

You swallow, closing your parted lips.

He caresses your cheek with the back of his finger. “Open.”

You hesitate for just one second before your lips part on their own, your tongue slipping out in the process.

The hand in your hair loosens to come to the base of his cock. He tips the glass and pours a small amount on him. The milk strikes his swollen head and runs along his shaft in little pale streams, carrying traces of your spit with it. Drop after drop falls onto your waiting tongue, and the rest travels across his knuckles and drips from his fist onto the front of your nightgown.

Cold milk splashes against your chest and the white cotton darkens and clings to your nipples as they tighten under your nightgown.

Joel watches one drop travel beneath your neckline before his thumb presses at the bottom of your lip, dragging it down and directing your attention back to the milk running down the length of him.

“Clean me up.”

You hesitate again, but it barely lasts a second before you’re leaning forward, licking the milk from the underside of his cock. Your tongue follows it from the base toward the head, gathering every drop along with the salt on his skin. He allows you to reach the tip before he takes hold of your hair again.

“Open wider.”

You obey, and he presses into your mouth.

Milk spills around the sides of his shaft when your lips close. It runs over your chin and down your throat, joining the damp patches across your chest.

The first taste is mostly milk, a little cold and creamy on your tongue. Then you suck harder and find the familiar taste of Joel under it, salty and a little musky, and that bitter little trace that’s waiting at the tip.

You suck until there’s nothing left except the taste of him and the slightest trace of milk and strawberry on your tongue.

“Such a good, fuckin’ girl,” He groans.

His thumb sweeps through the mess beneath your lip, but instead of wiping it away, he smears it across your cheek. “Finally got what you wanted, and you’re already covered in it.”

He drives into your mouth again.

“Should’ve put you on your knees weeks ago.”

You gag around him again, closing your eyes, trying to fight the gag—the pain of it every time it hits the sensitive part at the back of your throat—but Joel’s hand is already lifting under your chin, stroking the underside of it.

“Keep those pretty eyes open for me, baby.”

Your lashes lift reluctantly, wet and clumped together. Tears blur him at first, turning his face into hazy mess above you, but you blink until he comes back into focus and holds his stare, despite the reflex still fluttering through your throat.

And you watch his face change.

The tenderness remains in his hand, cradling your jaw, but hunger takes over the last of his restraint. He guides you forward, pushing past the depth that made you gag earlier.

Your throat fully contracts around the head this time.

He pulls back, then presses in again before you can fully recover. The movement becomes faster now, driven more by his hips and the hand holding your hair. Every thrust fills your mouth with the taste left on his skin and forces another wet sound from your lips.

“Wanted me to use you,” he says, clearly fighting to whisper but losing. “This what you were beggin’ for?”

You nod around him, another gag slipping out.

“Could’ve had this instead of lettin’ that drunk flirt with you.”

The mention of Tommy makes you whine.

He drives his hips forward again and pushes his cock to the back of your throat, and keeps it there, holding you full while your eyes spill over. His thumb caresses your temple, reassuring you even as his fist prevents you from escaping the pressure.

“S’mouth belongs to me, baby girl.” He withdraws enough to let air pass through your nose without obstruction. “You remember that next time you think about usin’ it to make me jealous.”

You nod eagerly.

The second your head stops moving, Joel begins fucking your mouth in earnest.

His hips meet your lips with each thrust. Saliva strings between your chin and his shaft whenever he pulls back, broken only when he pushes into you again. Your throat opens for him more easily now, though every third or fourth thrust still makes you gag.

At each time, Joel watches.

He eases when your body needs him to and pushes farther when he sees your fingers remain obediently folded behind your back. His control never disappears entirely, though. One hand uses your hair to guide you; the other pets your face, wipes tears from your cheeks, and checks the muscles working beneath your jaw.

“Take a little more for me,” he breathes.

Your jaw is already stretched as far as it’ll go, the tendons on both sides starting to ache, but you listen and force your mouth wider.

He presses in until your nose meets the damp hair at his base. His cock fills your throat, leaving no room for even a little sound, let alone air. Tears slip freely while he holds you there— not from the pain, but from the reflex your body can’t suppress and the overwhelming satisfaction of finally taking him this far.

A trimmer runs through the thigh beside your cheek, his grip stutters in your hair, then closes again as his hips twitch against your face.

“Jesus, fuckin’ Christ,” he drags out, his head tipping back.

The sounds scraped out of him make the ache worthwhile by itself.

When he finally pulls out, you drag air through your swollen lips as fast as you can. Saliva and leftover milk coat your chin, and strawberry juice stains the corners of your mouth pink. He gives you only a few seconds before tapping the heavy head against your tongue again.

“Still my eager girl?”

You try to speak—to tell him yes. That you can take more—but all you can manage is another eager nod.

“Exactly where you wanna be, huh?”

You nod again, already parting your lips.

He swipes his thumb along your bottom lip and brings it to his mouth. “Greedy girl.”

He feeds himself back into your mouth slowly, and you take him with renewed enthusiasm. You work your tongue under the head and suck hard whenever he withdraws.

You start to feel his cock pulsing more frequently, each throb kicking against your lips. His movements start losing their rhythm, and the hand in your hair trembles. A broken sound catches behind his teeth when you swallow around the tip on the next thrust.

You already know what’s coming before he even has to tell you.

Excitement makes you suck harder.

Joel curses loudly under his breath, and the fist in your hair pulls so tight your scalp starts to throb. He pulls you back until only the head rests against your lower lip while his fists move over the slick shaft, spreading saliva with every pass.

“Gonna come, baby.” His free hand cups your cheek, his thumb wiping a tear from under your lashes. “Want it in your mouth. Tell me you can take it.”

Your head bobs up and down, your sore knees dragging across the floor as you try to scoot closer.

“Y-yes,” you swallow, your lips trembling around the words. “I can take it. P-please.”

This is the part you’ve replayed in your head for months now. The thought of finally getting to taste Joel’s release on your tongue has your fingernails digging into the palms of your hands behind you.

The muscles across his cock jump at your answer. And his thumb moves from your cheek to your lower lip and draws it down.

“So proud of you darlin’,” he coos. His fist starts pumping against his shaft, firmer now. “Gonna keep those pretty eyes up for me and keep that mouth open, yeah?”

You nod eagerly, a breathless “Yes” slipping out before you open wide and extend your tongue beneath him.

He positions the swollen tip in the center, his hand gripping back into your hair firmly enough to keep it exactly where he wants it.

“Stay just like that,” he hums, his fist working faster now. “Gonna give that perfect mouth everything It’s been askin’ for.”

You stay open under him, your tongue shaky, and your eyes glued to his face. His hand moves over his shaft in quick strokes, carrying the mixture of sweat and saliva from the base to the head. Each pass forces another little clear bead from the slit and leaves his cock shining under the kitchen light.

You watch as his expression begins to break apart above you.

The muscles in his forearms are straining, and his lips try to separate around a breath, but it stops halfway out. The fingers threaded through your hair flex hard enough to send another sting across your scalp while you fight the urge to close your mouth around him.

He told you to stay open, and you want to prove that you can follow every instruction he gives you.

“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he hums, tapping the tip against your tongue.

The last of whatever restraint Joel was fighting, breaks through him on the first pulse against your tongue.

The first release spills into the center of your mouth, hot and thick enough to startle you. Salt spreads across your tongue and cuts through the strawberry sugar that was still lingering there.

Then his hip jerk again.

The second spurt reaches farther back, striking near the roof of your mouth before sliding toward your throat. Your tongue dips under the sudden weight of it, and your lips twitch with the instinct to close.

“Keep it open, baby,” he groans, his fist continuing to work over himself. “Doin’ so good.”

You force your jaw wider, blinking up at him.

Another thick release coats your tongue, joining the first two until there’s enough to pool beneath it. The taste is stronger now—salty, musky, and slightly bitter beneath the milk still sticking to the insides of your cheeks. The strawberry barely clings to your lips now, making every part of him taste stronger.

His eyes remain fixed on the pearly streaks, coating your tongue as his fist drags over his swollen head again. A final hard pulse sends another spurt toward the back of your mouth before you can prepare for it, and your throat contracts around it.

A loud gag jerks through you, sharp enough to make tears spill from your eyes. Your fingers tear apart behind your back, but you manage to keep them there while you fight the reflex to swallow.

Joe immediately angles his cock away from your throat. The hand in your hair loosens, his fingertips caressing your scalp instead of holding you in place.

“Easy, sweetheart.” His thumb reaches down to wipe the tear traveling over your cheek. “Got a lot in that little mouth of yours, don’t you?”

You nod carefully, terrified of spilling any.

Pride softens his face as he traces the swollen corners of your lips, catching the thin white line threatening to escape. His thumb pushes it back onto your tongue.

“Kept every drop,” he says, his chest rising and falling. His knuckles stroke your cheek. “Made for me aren’t you?”

Your jaw aches from remaining open, and that thick mixture is starting to slide towards the back of your throat again. Joel lets you hold it only long enough to admire the sight.

You can only imagine what he sees.

Your swollen mouth held wide, your tongue cupped and shaking beneath the pearly white pool he left there, another thin streak slipping free and trailing down the corner of your mouth.

The half empty glass of milk enters your peripheral, streams of it coating the sides, and your certain the two look obscenely similar.

“Go head and close, baby,” he hums, passing his thumb over your swollen bottom lip.

You seal your lips.

The taste is stronger now without the air between you. His release coats the inside of your cheeks and clings to the roof of your mouth, mixing with the last traces of milk and strawberry until you can just barely taste all three with every swirl of your tongue.

His palm cups beneath your chin.

“Swallow.”

Your throat works beneath his hand.

The first swallow clears only part of it. The thickness sticks near the back of your throat and forces you to swallow again, your eyes watering as it travels down. A small amount remains across your tongue, salty enough to make your lips purse.

Joel watches every movement in a trance.

He grips your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. “One more.”

You obey, swallowing until your mouth is empty, except for the taste he left behind.

You drag your tongue across your bottom lip, savoring the saltines of him, and wishing he had given you just a little more.

“Open,” Joel demands.

You part your lips and stick out your tongue for him.

A thin pearly trace remains near the corner, and Joel wipes it forward with his thumb, pressing it into the center, and waits until you close your lips around him.

You wrap your swollen lips around his thumb and suck it clean.

“S’my perfect, perfect girl.” His other hand strokes across your hair, repairing the strands his fists disturbed. “Took everything I gave you and more.”

The approval makes you smile weakly around his thumb.

He withdraws it and caresses your sticky cheek. His cock stands hard enough to hang heavily from his open jeans, damp with saliva, and the release you hadn’t managed to catch.

His hand slides from your cheek to your throat. His fingers close around it and draw you upward while his other arm catches your waist, hauling you from the floor until your body presses tight against him. Your knees are sore and weak; you barely have time to straighten before his mouth is on yours.

He kisses you with none of his earlier patience. His lips force yours apart and his tongue sweeps inside as though he intends to taste every trace of himself you swallowed. The force of it tips your head back against his palm and leaves you clinging to his open shirt.

His grip remains firm around your throat, pressing beneath your jaw while you cling to him.

“Taste so good,” he mutters against your mouth.

You try to kiss him again, but his hand keeps your head tipped back.

“Mouth took me so well,” he whispers into your mouth, his grip still firm on your throat. “Wanna see how well the rest of you does.

You moan against the hand around your throat and the length of him dancing between your sticky thighs.

“P-Please,” Joel,” you whine, trying to inch closer to him.

“Please what?” he asks, his hand gripping tighter around your waist.

“Please, f-fuck me,” you whisper.

He presses a kiss under your chin and onto your mouth, swallowing the desperate sound that follows when he turns you around.

“Anythin’ you want, darlin’.”

He pushes your front against the counter and gathers your nightgown above your hips. Cool air reaches the damp fabric between your legs as he hooks his hand behind one knee and lifts it onto the counter, leaving you exposed with your other foot barely touching the floor.

The bowl, now holding nothing but strawberry syrup, rattles beside your elbow, pink juice lapping against the porcelain while Joel pulls your underwear aside.

His fingers swipe through your folds, gathering the slickness there before chasing it back toward your clit. The brief contact pulls a helpless moan from you, your hips bucking into his hand and searching for more.

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, pressing a kiss beneath your ear as his fingers caress you again. “Gonna let me fuck that ache away?”

You whimper at his touch, your head nodding helplessly as your cheek rubs against his. “Y-yes. Please, Joel.”

“Don’t worry baby.” He pulls your hips firmly against his. “Gonna take such good care of you.”

He wraps one arm around your waist and positions his swollen head at your entrance. Then he drives inside, filling you in one firm thrust that forces your hands against the counter and sends the bowl rattling toward the wall.

The sudden fullness forces a full-on cry from your chest. His palm rises from between you and wraps around your mouth before the sound can carry upstairs.

“Keep it down, he warns into your ear. “Can’t let him hear us.”

You nod against his hand, tears threatening your eyes.

He releases his it from around your mouth and wraps it back around your throat. He drives into you again, hard enough to push your hip into the counter—hard enough to bruise probably. He doesn’t fuck you with the same patience he usually does. Each drive of his cock forces you onto your toes, your lifted leg trembling beside the bowl while his fingers dig into the flesh at your hips.

It’s exactly what you wanted from him.

His pleasure without apology. His body using your instead of arranging every touch around your comfort. Still though, his care survives inside the roughness—his arm braces your chest when your elbow threatens to buckle, and his palm muffles each cry without stealing your air.

“Takin’ me so well,” he praises into your hair. “Knew I’d fuck that little game right outta you.”

His words send you over faster than either of you expects.

Your body clamps around him, puling hard enough to interrupt his rhythm. His hand leaves your mouth and curls around your throat again, holding you upright while your orgasm tears through you.

“Joel—” you whine.

“I know, baby.” His lips press against your temple. “Ride it out.”

He fucks you through the final contractions, his strokes turning uneven as your body keeps gripping him.

“Missed you so damn much,” he whispers into your ear.

Then his hips drive flush against you and remain there while his cock pulses inside you.

Hot release fills you in several thick spurts, each one accompanied by Joel’s fingers in your mouth to muffle your whimpers. His face buries against your hair as he holds you against his chest until the last twitch passes.

For several seconds, neither of you moves. It’s just the sound of his breathing in your ear and the sound of you gasping for air.

Then Joel lowers your leg and turns you carefully in his arms. Your knees nearly give out, but he catches you and wraps both his arm around your waist before you can fall.

His hand caresses the throat he was just gripping, and he presses a wet kiss to the side of your mouth.

“Learn your lesson?”

You nod, exhausted and pleased, because that’s all you can manage.

Joel raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” you correct yourself, still breathing heavy. “I’ll come to you next time. P-promise.”

“S’right.” He kisses your forehead and draws your nightgown back over your thighs with his free hand. “My good girl.”

You curl against his chest, smiling into his shirt.

“It worked, though.”

His palm comes down quick against your sore ass, loud enough to make a noise that he doesn’t seem to care about.

pairing: soft dom!joel x f!reader wc: 12k (i am so sorry)

summary: using tommy to make joel jealous seemed harmless enough- but joel had other plans...

warnings: 18+ mdni, jackson au, big age gap (mid 50s and mid 20s), soft dom!joel, protective!joel, pervy!tommy, clingy/needy reader, possessiveness, jealousy as foreplay, praise kink, daddy kink (nickname only used once), rough sex, oral sex (m receiving), food play, oral fixation, deepthroating, gagging, spit, tears during oral, hair pulling, throat holding, spanking mention, semi-public risk, unprotected p-in-v sex

a/n: i had a dream ab going down on joel so this is what transpired... i swear after this i'm limiting myself to fics under 6k words- bc its physically impossible for me to write something under 11k words... o.O anyway, i hope yall enjoy! i'll be going through my requests soon so feel free to ask/submit any ideas or whatever while they're open! i love to hear from you guys!!! ♡♡ also: i only proofread this like once...:/

now playing... the giver - chappell roan

Joel Miller tells you no at least ten times a day. Though you can’t remember the last time he actually meant it.

 No, you can’t follow him to the stables when he has work to finish. No, you don’t need help fastening every little button on your dress. No, he isn’t carrying you upstairs simply because your feet hurt.

Then you look at him long enough, or curl both your hands around his wrist, or let your lip poke out the way he claims stopped working months ago.

And that usually ends with you perched nearby while he works, his hands working at the front of your dress, or one thick arm hooked under your knees while he mutters something about how spoiled you’ve gotten.

As if he isn’t directly responsible for it.

Joel has catered to every clingy little impulse you possess and kept the reason perfectly hidden from the rest of Jackson.

Nobody knows why you’re always the first person he searches for when he returns through the gates. They don’t know that the key in his pocket belongs to the house you practically live in now, or that half the clothes folded inside his dresser are yours.

And they certainly don’t know what happens after you slip through his backdoor each night.

You tried to hide your clinginess at first.

Because people in Jackson are nosy, and the difference between you and Joel was already impossible to miss. You figured sitting in his lap or hanging from his arm would have the whole town whispering before you even made it through dinner.

Instead, everyone came to the same wrong conclusion.

They thought Joel was taking care of you.

Not fucking you. Not keeping your underwear beneath his pillow because you had a habit of leaving without them.

They thought he was taking care of you in the respectable, almost parental way an older man might look after a younger girl who had become too attached to him. They thought you’d attached yourself to Joel because he was older and dependable and that he indulged in you because refusing a pretty girl young enough to be his daughter was just one of the few survival skills he never learned.

And once they decided that, they stopped examining any of it.

So you stopped caring who saw you cling to him.

Joel, however, remained careful enough for the both of you.

He won’t kiss you in public, and he’d probably drag you home by the back of your dress if you ever tried. But that doesn’t stop you from winding both your arms around his bicep while he talks to someone about patrol duties or resting your head in his shoulder during dinner. You press your face into his chest whenever patrol keeps him gone too long. You stand between his spread knees at community meetings, close enough to feel his breath against your neck while his hand remains respectably above your waist.

Everyone just thinks you’re seeking comfort from him.

They don’t know that same hand held your face against the mattress the night before.

People smile whenever they catch you tucked under Joel’s arm—they think it’s cute. Tommy rolls his eyes and calls you his brother’s spoiled little girl, usually earning a glare from Joel and an embarrassing thrill between your legs.

Women old enough to remember life before the outbreak tell you how lucky you are to have a man like Joel watching over you, a father figure — unaware that he had you crying into his pillow before breakfast for reasons you absolutely cannot divulge to them.

The worst part is how easily you’ve begun taking advantage of it.

You can sit pressed against Joel’s side at the Tipsy Bison with your thighs fitted between his and nobody gives you a second glance. You can play with his fingers under the table, tracing the thick knuckles that were inside you that morning, while everyone just assumes you needed another bit of reassurance. Once, you even fell asleep with your head in his lap. Joel stroked your hair the entire time, scowling down at you because he knew exactly what you were doing.

Nobody noticed the way his fingers closed around a handful of it when you smiled up at him.

They just saw an older man indulging in the poor girl who followed him everywhere like a lost puppy. They didn’t see the erection you could feel beneath your cheek or the warning in his eyes when you rubbed against it.

Yet, those warnings were rarely empty.

He liked making you pay for taking advantage of everyone’s assumptions about the two of you.

If your hand wandered too high beneath the table at the community dinner, he’d wait until he got you home to bend you across his lap and redden your ass. If you accidentally mentioned waking up in his bed within Tommy’s hearing, he made you stand against the bedroom wall with your dress gathered around your waist while he decided what to do with you. And if you managed to sleepily call him daddy in front of half the Tipsy Bison, he’d make you repeat it into his pillow until it was the only word you could manage.

But It was hardly a punishment when both of you knew you misbehaved because you wanted exactly that.

You loved the change in him once you were behind a locked door. He could pin both your wrists above your head with one hand, then use the other to sweep your hair away from your face when it stuck to your lips. His knees forced your legs apart whenever they tried to close around him, but he kissed the tears from under your eyes and told you what a good girl you were for  taking him so well.

Sometimes he fucked you hard enough to drive the bedframe against the wall, his palm covering your mouth while he reminded you that the neighbors already paid too much attention to who came and went from his house. Even then, his thumb passed over your cheek, his forehead rested against yours, and every filthy command ended with baby or sweetheart.

But his roughness just came naturally to him.

 Joel was a big man with hands that could circle both your wrists and a cock that made your body ache the next morning, even on the nights the sex was slow and gentle. He left fingerprints around your thighs when he held them open. His bread scraped the sensitive skin between your legs raw. Sometimes his hips would strike hard enough to bruise, especially when you clenched around him and his restraint slipped for a few strokes.

But he never took more than he believed you could handle, and he never took anything purely because he wanted it.

You loved that in the beginning. You still do. You love how thoroughly Joel cares for you, how naturally his body closes around yours afterward, how he cleans you up and pulls the blankets beneath your chin. You love falling asleep sore between your legs with his hands spread across your belly.

You don’t have to do anything besides lie beneath him and accept it.

But that’s exactly the problem.

You wanted to make Joel feel good for once.

You wanted to learn his body as thoroughly as he had learned yours—to know what touch made his hips jerk, which drag of your tongue made him lose his train of thought, which gag would finally send him over the edge.

But he’d never even let you taste him.

The closest you ever got was a kiss from his after he’d finished in you then went down on you after.

Joel has never allowed you to kneel between his leg and take him into your mouth. He’d never stood over you with his hand fisted in your hair and taught you how to take him without choking. You’d spent countless nights imagining him using your mouth until tears ran down your cheeks, imagined what he’d look like when you’d glance up to find every trace of patience gone from his face.

He refused to let the fantasy get any further than that.

He always claimed he didn’t need it.

That was the word he always used. Need. Like it was air or water.

And you’d tried often enough to know his refusal had nothing to do with him disliking the idea. His entire body would betray him the few times you managed to get on your knees for him. His thighs would go rigid, his cock would thicken behind the seam of his jeans, and his fingers would flex at the sides of his thighs like he was already imagining a handful of your hair.

Once, you’d actually managed to get to your knees and open his belt before he stopped you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you with his jaw clenched while you rubbed your cheek helplessly over the bulge in his pants. The dark patch at the tip grew against your lips as you pressed a kiss to it through the fabric, and the sound that tore from his chest kept you awake thinking about it for days.

“Teach me, Joel,” you whined, rubbing your cheek over the length trapped inside his jeans again. “I promise I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

His refusal was already there, but it looked painfully close to breaking.

A muscle jumped beside his mouth. His lips parted each time yours brushed the damp patch slowly spreading over his zipper, then they’d press together again before any sound could escape. One of his hands gripped the edge of the mattress hard enough to bleach his knuckles. The other hung beside your head, fingers opening and closing as his eyes followed every pass of your mouth across his cock.

You tipped your face toward him without lifting your chin from his crotch. Your eyes were enormous and pleading from where you were, your lashes fluttering with every blink. And he watched every single one of them. You could almost see him imagining those lashes wet and clumped together while he held you down on him.

“Please, Joel. Just let me try,” you begged. “Let me show you how bad I want it.”

His fist gripped at the edge of the bed again when you turned your head and pressed another open-mouthed kiss to the tip. His cock jerked against your lips, and a broken grunt left his throat, followed by your name bitten out between his teeth.

You could see how badly he wanted to give in. His thighs spread another inch around your body, his heel scrapped across the floor as his hips pushed involuntarily toward your mouth. The hand hanging between your head lifted; his thick fingers passing through your hair, gathering it away from your face until his fist closed near your scalp as he stared at your mouth.

He used his free hand to drag his thumb across your lower lip, pulling it down until your mouth parted slightly. When his cock twitched again under your chin, you could’ve sworn that was is it. He was going to free himself, guide you forward, and finally let you give him everything you’d been begging to.

You leaned into his grip, already opening wider.

You watched his eyes close, and another curse leave him through clenched teeth before the fist in your hair loosened.

“No, darlin’.” His thumb passed once against your cheek again. “Get up for me.”

He slid both his hands beneath your arms and lifted you from your knees, making sure not to let them scrape against the floor. By the time he sat you on the mattress, every trace of that near-surrender had been locked away again—except for the erection still straining against his jeans.

He never let it get that far again.

After that night, Joel got better at recognizing your intentions before you could even think about dropping to the floor. You could barely kiss his belly before his hands were catching your waist and hauling you back up. If your fingers even hesitated near his belt, he laced them through his and pinned them beside your head. You never got another chance to feel his cock jerk against your lips or see how close he could come to losing himself over your mouth.

Naturally, that only made you want it more.

Usually, Joel gave you enough attention to keep frustration from consuming you. It was difficult to remain upset with him when his hands or mouth were on you, and most nights ended with you too exhausted to remember what he’d even refused.

But even that distraction had been taken from you.

Joel had barely been home. Between patrol, repairs near the gate, and whatever someone kept dragging him away to handle, you received whichever parts of him Jackson hadn’t exhausted. A kiss against your forehead while he ate supper standing at the counter. His hand squeezing your waist when he passed behind you. He barely lasted ten minutes tucked beside you in bed before his breathing evened out against your hair.

You loved those parts of him too, though.

Some of your favorite nights spent with Joel had nothing to do with sex. You were perfectly happy sitting beside him while he repaired the torn strap of his gun or sharpened the knife he kept at his hip, your legs across his lap and his thumb passing over your ankle whenever he paused. You loved watching him wash the day from his face at the bathroom sink, sleeves shoved to his elbows and gray curls wet and flattened at his temples. You even liked listening to him complain about his patrol assignments you barely understood, especially when he stopped halfway through to ask whether you were paying attention and found you staring at his hands instead.

You didn’t need him inside you every time the two of you were alone.

You did, however, need more than a sleepy kiss and the back of his shirt clutched in your fist while he passed out beside you.

By that evening, you were itching to see him. Joel had left shortly after sunrise, promising he would be home before supper, and that occupied nearly every thought you had for the rest of the day. You wondered where he was while you finished your morning chores, whether he had remembered to eat when you passed the dining hall, and how much longer he would be gone each time boots sounded against the porch.

He was due back any minute, so you had already made yourself comfortable on his couch to wait for him.

The little blue bowl that rested in your lap, filled with strawberries Joel had hulled and cut for you this morning. Sugar clung to their wet surfaces and collected with the juice at the bottom. Joel always sprinkled more over the top than necessary because he knew you liked scooping up the sweet syrup with your spoon afterward. A tall glass of milk sat within reach on the table next to you, beads of condensation running down the outside and gathering on the coaster under it.

You were lifting another sugar-covered strawberry to your mouth when boots struck the porch.

Excitement had you sitting upright before the latch even lifted. You placed the bowl beside your milk and wiped your sticky fingertips against the napkin you brought with you, already preparing to launch yourself at him the moment he came through the door.

The familiar weight of Joel’s boots crossed the threshold into the house, each step heavy enough to carry through the floorboards under your feet.

You were already pushing up from the couch when another set followed behind his. Louder. Uneven. One heel scraped across the wood before a shoulder struck the side of the door with a dull thud.

You barely had time to process the second pair of footsteps when you heard a drunken, slurred Tommy and a tired, very irritated Joel.

“Tommy, quit draggin’ your feet. Your scrapin’ up my damn floor,” Joel groaned from the entryway.

Tommy lifted one boot and brung it down against the floorboards with a deliberate thud. Then the other. The sound traveling through the house while he laughed at his own joke, one arm still hanging across Joel’s shoulder.

“Calm down, big brother. House survived all this time without you fussin’ over it.”

“House ain’t what I’m worried about. Keep that up, you’re gonna bust your damn teeth.”

All you could hear was a distant laugh from Tommy and another groan from Joel.

You sink back against the couch, plucking the bowl from beside you and placing it back in your lap.

All afternoon, you had pictured Joel coming through that door alone.

You’d imagined wrapping yourself around him before he could even take off his boots, following him into the kitchen while he ate, and stealing back every bit of attention Jackson had kept from you that week.

Instead, one of his arms is occupied by Tommy, and the other is carrying both their coats.

The strawberry between your fingers drips pink juice onto your palm.

You return it to the bowl without finishing it.

Joel looks toward the couch as he walks in. His eyes find you immediately, passing over the half-drunken milk, the bowl in your lap, and the disappointment you haven’t managed to hide from your face. His mouth presses into a line.

“I’m sorry, dar—”

Joel pauses mid-sentence, catching the pet name before it can fully leave his mouth.

Tommy’s head turns toward him, his brows pulling together as he tries to follow an apology that wasn’t meant for him. “Sorry for what? I’m havin’ a wonderful fuckin’ time.”

Joel pays him no attention. His eyes remain fixed on you, taking in the frown at your mouth.

Tommy follows his stare.

To you—curled into the corner of the couch with your legs crossed under you, a white cotton nightgown spilling across your thighs. The hem has ridden up while you waited, leaving most of your legs bare, and dull pink juice shines across your fingertips resting against the rim of your bowl.

Tommy looks at you for what feels like ever.

“Well, hell.” His unfocused eyes travel from your bare legs to the thin straps on your shoulders before his grin spreads. “Would’ve cleaned myself up if I knew Joel had pretty company waitin’ at home.”

“Eyes up,” Joel mutters.

Tommy’s grin only widens. “They are.”

You manage a smile, wiping the strawberry juice from your fingertips.

“Hi, Tommy.”

You like Tommy. He’s funny, easy to talk to, and far more willing than Joel to entertain whatever nonsense comes into your head sometimes.

He also gets shamelessly perverted after a few drinks.

His eyes linger where they shouldn’t, innocent compliments become filthy, and he has a habit of letting his hand remain on your knee long after the joke has ended.

But you’ve never felt threatened by it. Tommy flirts with half of Jackson, and you know he’d pull away the second you genuinely asked him to—even drunk. Usually though, you just roll your eyes and enjoy him anyway.

Tonight, though, is an unfortunate night to be trapped with the drunk, handsy version of him.

Because after spending all day waiting for Joel, the sight of Tommy hanging from the man you wanted makes your chest ache with an embarrassingly childish resentment.

You don’t want to share Joel’s attention with anyone—especially his brother, who seems to be determined to require every bit of it.

“Just for tonight, kid,” he adds, giving Tommy a shove toward the nearest chair. “Ain’t in no shape to make it home.”

“Okay,” you mumble, pulling the bowl closer in your lap.

You know he wasn’t eally asking for permission. Even if he were, you could hardly insist he throw his drunken brother into the street because you’d spent the day planning to monopolize him.

Kid is what Joel calls you when other people are listening.

The word helps everyone keep believing exactly what they already believe—that you’re just the girl Joel feels responsible for, and his attention carries no desire behind it. in public, you’re kid. Occasionally, you’re sweetheart, if nobody is paying enough attention to question it. Never baby, though.. Never his pretty girl. And definitely never the filthy names he presses against your ear while his cock is buried inside you.

Usually, you enjoy the deceit. There’s a private thrill in hearing Joel call you kid while his hand rests innocently on your shoulder, knowing that same hand would close around your throat once he got you alone.

Tonight, it only reminds him that you won’t be getting him alone.

Joel deposits Tommy in the chair and disappears into the kitchen for water. The moment his back is turned, Tommy is pushing himself upright and dropping onto the couch next to you.

He lands hard enough to jostle the bowl in your lap. The wet strawberries slosh against the side, and you catch it with both hands before it spills across your nightgown.

“Tommy,” Joel warns from the kitchen doorway.

“I’m sittin’ down,” he slurs.

“Put you in a chair for a reason.”

“Yeah, and I left it for a better one.”

You can tell Joel wants to argue back, but stops when he realizes it’s not worth the fight with a drunken Tommy Miller.

Tommy stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you, taking up far more room than he needs to—typical. His thigh presses against your folded legs, so you draw them closer to you, but the couch is small and he doesn’t seem to notice—or care—that he’s crowded you farther into the corner.

He looks down at your bowl. “What’ve you got there?”

Your eyes bounce between him and the bowl, one eyebrow slightly raised but not enough for him to notice.

“Just a snack,” you reply, plainly. “Strawberries and some milk.”

“I can see that.” He lifts his eyes back to yours as he nods toward the bowl. “You mind?”

Your eyebrows draw together, lips parting as you search for an answer. “Uh, I—”

You barely get out the first sound out before his hands are moving.

His fingers dip into the bowl, plucking one of the largest berries from the sugar collecting at the bottom. He pops it into his mouth whole, then licks the juice from his thumb.

“Tommy,” Joel calls more sternly from the kitchen.

He glances around his shoulder; his cheek rounded around the berry. “What? She ain’t complainin’.”

You nearly do.

The berry was yours, Tommy is a little too close for comfort, and the whiskey on his breath makes your eyes water whenever he speaks.

But your eyes drift past him. To Joel standing in the kitchen doorway.

His eyes are bouncing between Tommy’s fingers in your bowl, and you curled into the corner of the couch.

For the first time all night, Joel’s attention was on you.

He’d spent the entire week giving you distracted kisses and whatever parts of him Jackson hadn’t exhausted. Tonight, after waiting all day to finally have him alone, he arrived with his drunken brother hanging from his arm.

Now all it takes is one stolen strawberry for him to watch every movement on his couch.

The complaint dies on your tongue.

Because you like Tommy. You do. He’s generous, knows how to make you laugh, and is usually harmless beneath all the drunken flirting. Letting him steal a strawberry isn’t betrayal.

If it irritates Joel, that’s merely an added benefit.

So when Tommy asks what you’ve done all day, you answer. When he tells you your nightgown is too pretty for sitting around in Joel’s house, you laugh and glance toward the kitchen to see whether Joel heard him. You even let him steal two more strawberries, leaving the bowl in reaching distance despite having plenty of time to move it.

You aren’t flirting with him.

You’re simply not making any effort to discourage him.

There’s a difference.

Probably.

Joel returns a few minutes later with a glass of water and a damp cloth. He gives Tommy the water first, then tosses the cloth into his lap.

“Drink. Clean yourself up.”

Tommy wipes it once across his mouth before dropping it onto his knee. “She’s been keepin’ me company.”

Joel answers with half grunt, half laugh as his eyes travel over the arm stretched behind you, Tommy’s leg pressing into yours, and the half empty bowl resting between the two of you. The muscles beside his mouth draw taut, but all he does is nod toward the water.

Tommy drinks half before becoming distracted again.

“You always dress like this for him?” he asks you.

Your fingers pause against the rim of your bowl.

“Quit it,” Joel says firmly.

“What?” Tommy turns toward Joel, attempting an innocence his grin immediately ruins. “Just tellin’ her she looks nice.”

“You said it. Now move on.”

Tommy gives you a conspiratorial grin, treating Joel’s irritation as another private joke between the two of you. “He always this bossy with you?”

Your eyes lift to Joel before you answer, making sure he’s watching.

 “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Tommy repeats with a laugh. His hand drops onto your knee as if you’ve shared a joke at Joel’s expense. “Poor thing.”

Joel does not find the joke nearly as funny.

Tommy’s palm remains there, and this time, you don’t pull your leg away.

Your fingertips continue circling the rim of the sticky bowl while you watch Joel take Tommy’s abandoned glass from him.  The base strikes the wood hard, sending a ring through the room.

“Hands to you damn self, Tommy.”

Tommy glances down as if he’s only just discovered where his hand ended up. “Jesus, Joel. It’s her knee.”

“And it don’t belong to you.”

The words leave him too quickly.

No one speak after that.  Tommy’s eyes narrow as he looks between the two of you, his drunken mind trying to catch hold of whatever slipped beneath Joel’s answer.

But Joel recovers first.

“You’re twice her size, drunk off your ass, and crowdin’ her into the damn wall,” he adds. “Move.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him.

Joel’s head snaps to yours.

You try to look innocent, although the thrill running through you probably shows. Joel stares long enough to make you wonder whether he already knows what game you’re playing.

Tommy gives your knee a tiny squeeze. “See? She’s fine.”

“Move,” Joel repeats.

Tommy lift his hands in surrender then scoots several inches away. Joel watches until a respectable amount of couch appears between you. Then he collects their coats and heads upstairs, probably to prepare whatever space he’s going to throw Tommy in.

You immediately wish he hadn’t left.

Tommy’s attention holds very little appeal without Joel there to witness it. The fun came from watching Joel notice every inch his brother took—the space beside you, the strawberries from your bowl, your knee beneath his clammy palm.

Without Joel in the room, you’re merely sitting beside a trunk man who doesn’t seem to remember what personal space is.

Tommy is filling the empty space before Joel’s even made it halfway up the stairs.

He asks whether you have anyone waiting for you at home, then tells you a girl who looks the way you do shouldn’t spend her night alone. You answer him with enough sweetness to keep him talking, but your attention remains on the stars.

You could tell him to move. You know that.

The trouble is that you’ve spent the last ten minutes smiling at him.

You laughed at his drunken compliments, let him stick his fingers in your bowl and eat from it, and left your leg beneath his hand after Joel told him to remove it. Pushing him away the instant Joel left would make it embarrassingly clear that none of this had ever been about Tommy.

So you let him continue. Only until Joel comes back.

Then Tommy steals his fourth strawberry.

And this time, instead of reaching into the bowl, he takes it directly from your sticky fingers. His fingertips drag across yours, collecting the sugar and juice left behind.

“You gonna eat all these yourself, sweetheart?” he asks, dangling it between your fingers.

You manage a laugh. “I was planning to.”

He sucks his teeth, popping it into his mouth. “Thought Joel taught you to share.”

The words send an uncomfortable pulse through you. Tommy couldn’t possibly know what Joel has taught you, yet your heart still skips a beat at the thought.

Tommy laughs when he sees your reaction. “Aw, don’t get shy now.”

“I’m not shy,” you insist.

“You are,” he teases as he leans closer. “Face gives you away.”

Joel’s boots cross the floor above you.

You lift the bowl out of Tommy’s reach when he tries to take another strawberry, but your smile ruins the refusal. He follows the bowl across your body, his hand pressing into your thigh as he reaches farther.

“Tommy,” Joel shouts. “What the hell did I just tell your ass?”

His words crack across the room.

Joel appears at the foot of the stairs, a folded blanket crushed beneath one arm. His eyes are fixed on Tommy’s palm against your thigh, and the tendons along the back of his free hand stand out where his fingers have curled into a fist.

Tommy sits back, more startled by Joel’s tone than ashamed. “Christ, Joel. We’re just talkin’.”

“Then you can do it from over there.” Joel points toward the opposite end of the couch. “Move your ass.”

Tommy lets out a loud laugh and looks at you for support. “She ain’t asked me to stop.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” he sneers. Joel strides farther into the room and drops the blanket onto the chair.

“You’re drunk, you’ve got her crowded into a corner, and I’ve already told you to leave her alone. What part’re you havin’ trouble understandin’?”

“Joel, it’s okay,” you say, smoothing your nightgown over your knees.

Tommy lifts his eyebrows at him, smug. “See? She said it’s—”

“No, it ain’t.” Joel cuts him off so quickly that the words nearly overlap. Then he catches himself, his jaw working before he looks back at Tommy and continues. “You’re makin’ an ass of yourself. Sit over there, drink your water, and keep your damn hands to yourself.”

Tommy stares at him for a second, then lifts both his hands with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “All right. Jesus. Didn’t realize she needed a damn guard dog.”

“She don’t,” Joel replies. “You just need somebody remindin’ you how to behave.”

Tommy mutters something under his breath as he scoots across the couch angrily, sloshing the remaining water across his knuckles in the process.

The relief you feel when his thigh leaves yours is almost immediate.

You had enjoyed Joel’s reaction for more than you enjoyed the hand that caused it. Tommy’s touch left behind a little more than the fading pressure of his palm. But Joel’s jealousy has your underwear clinging to you under your nightgown. And Joel looks about ready to break Tommy’s hand.

The sight sends another embarrassing throb between your legs.

You’ve spent days desperate for his attention, and now every bit of it is fixed on you—the fist at his side, the anger spread across his face, the possessiveness he has no respectable way to explain. Tommy’s palm has already left your thigh, but Joel’s reaction makes you press them together beneath your nightgown.

 You hadn’t meant to cause an argument between them.

But you can’t pretend you’re sorry to discover how easily another man’s interest strips away Joel’s restraint.

Joel glances at you once more before returning to the kitchen. His eyes pause on the fabric gathered over your thigh.

You hold his stare while you smooth the nightgown back over your legs.

His eyes narrow at you.

The difference is minor enough that Tommy misses it. But you don’t. You can tell Joel is beginning to suspect you aren’t quite as uncomfortable as he assumed.

Someone sensible would stop there.

But you spent all week being sensible.

Tommy behaves for less than a minute.

He finishes off his water, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and watches Joel disappear around the kitchen doorway then his attention is back on you.

“Still allowed to talk to you, sweetheart?”

You glance toward the kitchen. Joel has his back to the room, but the rigid line of his shoulders tells you he’s definitely listening.

“Depends,” you say, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “You wanna get yelled at again?”

Tommy laughs and leans closer despite Joel’s warning. “Might be worth it.”

You should end the game. You’ve already gotten what you wanted: Joel is angry, attentive, and painfully aware of every inch between you and his brother.

Then Joel looks over his shoulder.

The directness of his stare nearly wipes the smile clean from your face. You immediately reach for the glass next to you, hoping it’ll hide whatever guilt he might read in your expression. It gives your hands an innocent place to go too—like you’re only sitting there finishing your snack, completely unaware of the game you’ve been playing.

The glass is still cold against your sticky fingers, wet enough with condensation that it nearly slips from your grip. You bring it to your lips and drink much faster than you need to, swallowing mouthful after mouthful while Joe’s eyes lay into you from across the room.

The milk catches at the corner of your lips when you tip the glass too far. One drop slips over your chin and trails down the front of your throat. Another follows, reaching the neckline of your nightgown before disappearing beneath the white cotton. A small splash darkens the fabric over your chest, leaving it damp enough to cling to your skin.

By the time you lower it, the cold has begun to ache behind your teeth.

And Tommy’s attention is no longer on your face.

His eyes have followed the wet path down your throat and stopped on the darkened patch across your chest. The playful grin disappears for a second, replaced by an intent stare that makes your fingers close harder around the glass.

“Spilled a little,” he says.

His tongue passes across his bottom lip before he looks back at your mouth. Another drop remains in the corner.

He leans across the space he’d been ordered to leave between you. “Here. Lemme help you, sweetheart.”

You start lifting your hand, mainly because your first instinct is to wipe it away yourself. Then your eyes drift toward the kitchen doorway.

Joel’s watching again, one hand planted against the counter and his entire body turned toward the couch.

Your hand pauses halfway to your face.

That single moment of hesitation is all Tommy needs. His thumb passes across the corner of your lips, collecting the milk. And instead of pulling back, he drags the pad of it along your lower lip, his eyes following the motion.

Joel is out of the kitchen before Tommy’s hand can leave your face.

His fingers lock around Tommy’s wrist and wrench his hand from your mouth so quickly that the couch jolts beneath you. The milk on Tommy’s thumb smears across his knuckle as Joel twists it away from your face.

“Goddamnit, Tommy.” Each word forces its way through his teeth. “What the hell’d I’d tell your ass?”

Tommy rocks sideways, his free hand catching on the couch. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Joel drags him upright, Tommy’s knee striking the table on the way up, rattling your glass and sending milk over its rim, but Joel doesn’t even glance in its direction.

“I’ve told you three goddamn times to keep your hands off her.”

“I wiped her damn mouth, Joel,” Tommy curses back.

“You put your hands on her mouth.” Joel gives his wrist another yank when Tommy tries to pull free. “After I told you to leave her alone.”

Tommy’s face pinches. “You’re gonna break my fuckin’ arm.”

“The quit fightin’ me,” Joel scolds, giving his wrist another wrench.

Joel releases his wrist only to shove him back by the chest. Tommy stumbles into the table, and Joel follows, keeping his body planted between the two of you. His hands curl into fists, and the veins stand out along his forearms because of it, and each breath pushes hard through his nose as he stares his brother down.

You’ve seen Joel angry before. You’ve watched him handle men outside the gates and silence entire rooms with a look. He usually keeps that part of himself buried around you.

It’s overflowing at the surface now.

Tommy rubs the inside of his wrist. “She ain’t even tell me to stop.”

“Don’t care. I did.”

“Since when do you get to decide who puts their hands on her?”

Joel steps into him again. “Since your drunk ass forgot how to listen.”

Tommy turns toward you now. “She ain’t looked too bothered all night.”

Joel’s head turns.

You’re still sitting on the couch with the bowl clutched against your stomach and milk drying across the front of your nightgown. His eyes move from the damp fabric to your lips, then rise to meet yours.

He knows.

You see the exact second every polite laugh, every strawberry you let Tommy steal, and every glance you sent towards the kitchen arranges itself inside his head.

You should feel guilty now that he’s caught you. Instead, the knowledge that Joel understood exactly how bad you wanted his jealousy, sends another heartbeat between your legs.

“I’m okay, Joel,” you tell him, attempting the same innocent expression that usually earns you whatever you want.

His eyes narrow fast.

“Yeah,” he replies, turning back toward Tommy. “I can see that.”

You suck in your lip to keep from smirking.

Tommy’s eyes move between you. The alcohol no longer clouds all of his attention as he looks between Joel standing in front of you and the guilt threatening to betray your performance.

“Why do you care so damn much?” Tommy asks.

Joel goes rigid.

For half a second, you think he might answer honestly. His lips pull back from his teeth, and his chest expands under his shirt as every ugly, possessive word he can’t say collects behind them.

Then his hand closes around the back of Tommy’s neck.

“Because you’re embarassin’ yourself, pawnin’ at a girl half your age.” He turns Tommy toward the stairs with his hand still locked around the back of his neck. “You’re done. Get upstairs.”

“Get your hands off me,” Tommy hisses.

Joel shoves him onto the first step. “Start walkin’ then.”

Tommy turns as though he intends to argue again. But Joel catches a fistful of his shirt and slams him against the staircase railing, bracing his forearm across his chest. The impact knocks the remaining fight from Tommy’s face.

“You’re gonna go upstairs,” Joel tells him, each word pressed through his clenched jaw. “You’re gonna get in bed, and you’re gonna stay there until you’re sober enough to remember how a grown man keeps his hands to himself. You understand me?”

Tommy just stares at him.

Joel drives his forearm harder against his chest. “Asked you a question.”

“Yeah. Fine,” Tommy replies reluctantly.

“Upstairs then.”

Joel releases him with a shove that nearly sends him to his knees on the stairs. Tommy grabs the railing, curses, and begins his ascent. His boots strike every step unevenly, but Joel remains directly behind him, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt whenever he moves too slowly.

Before they disappear, Joel glances over his shoulder at you.

His eyes drop to the milk staining your nightgown, then return to your face.

The warning there promises he hasn’t forgotten your part in this.

A small knot of guilt forms under your ribs as you listen to Joel force Tommy up the remaining stairs. You hadn’t intended for the game to end with his wrist nearly twisted behind his back. You only wanted Joel to notice. To look at you with the same hunger he kept denying whenever you tried to please him.

Judging by the anger he carried upstairs, you definitely accomplished that.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t be another night spent curled against Joel’s back while he slept. Maybe he’d finally give you more than a distracted kiss and ten exhausted minutes under him. The possibility of that makes it difficult to regret much of anything.

A bedroom door slams overhead. Joel’s boots cross the floor once, followed by the scrape of furniture being dragged in front of the door. Tommy protests, but Joel just tells him to sleep it off, and then the house goes silent.

You remain on the couch with your bowl pressed against your stomach while milk dries against your throat and makes the front of your nightgown stay clinging to your chest. Your lips still carry the strange phantom of Tommy’s thumb, but the sensation disappears when Joel begins descending the stairs.

He looks furious when he reaches the bottom.

His sleeves are shoved past his elbows, exposing the veins raised along his forearms. His gray curls lie disordered across his forehead, and the first buttons of his shirt have been pulled open during the struggle. His eyes find you immediately.

“Kitchen.” He nods toward the bowl in your lap and the glass on the table. “Bring your dishes.”

Your guilt returns. But still, you collect both and follow him.

When you enter, Joel doesn’t look at you. He only takes the dishes from your hands and places them beside the sink. The strawberries slide through their pink syrup when the bowl meets the counter, filling the room with their sugary scent.

Then he catches you around the waist.

Your feet leave the floor in one easy motion. He sits you on the counter and steps between your dangling knees, already reaching for your face.

“Lemme see.”

His fingers cup your jaw and turn your head toward the light. He wets his thumb with his tongue before passing it over the corner of your mouth where Tommy touched you. Then down the line of the dried milk beneath your chin and down your throat. His eyes travel over every inch of skin he uncovers.

“He touch you anywhere else?”

You shake your head. “Just my leg.”

He pushes your nightgown above your knee and spreads his hand across the place Tommy’s palm had rested. There’s no mark for him to find—of course—but after one final pass of his thumb over your thigh, the concern leaves his face.

And the anger stays.

His jaw clenches under his beard. “You like him touchin’ you?”

Your eyebrows lift in confusion, and all you can do is stare at him. You thought Joel had already understood the game; surely, he hadn’t watched you glance toward him after every stolen strawberry and mistaken any of that for genuine interest in Tommy.

“No.” Your answer comes out breathless with a surprise. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Sure as hell looked like you did.”

“Well, I didn’t.” You reach for him, combing your fingers into the gray hair near his temple. “I only let him keep flirting because you were watching. I just wanted your attention.”

His head tips into your hand despite the accusation in his eyes. His cheek brushes your wrist as your fingernail passes through his curls.

“Could’ve just asked me, baby girl.”

“I have been asking.” Your lips push into a pout, but then you notice how firmly his jaw remains set. The possibility that you genuinely hurt him drains the satisfaction from your face.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you this upset,” you plead. “I just missed you, and then you came home with Tommy, and I thought you weren’t going to want me tonight either.”

His head rises under your grasp. He draws your face toward his, forcing your eyes back to him while his other palm closes around the inside of your thigh.

“Well, you got my attention, didn’t you, darlin’?” His thumb presses into your lower lip. “Had me watchin’ every time he looked at you. Every time he put his hands where they didn’t belong.”

Your knees part farther as he moves between them.

“Seems to me you need a lesson in how to ask for my attention,” he scolds, the anger in his face and voice tempered by the hand caressing your thigh. “Hm?”

Your eyebrows draw together as you search his face. A lesson could mean a number of things with Joel, and the fingers moving higher under your nightgown gives you very little indication of which one he has in mind. Still, you nod uncertaintly.

He catches your bottom lip beneath his thumb and pulls it down. “Use your words.”

“Mhm,” you whisper, your eyes dropping to his mouth. “Y-yeah.”

“S’right.” His grip eases under your chin, his thumb soothing the place he just pressed into.

“Been beggin’ me to teach you somethin’,” he hums. “Figure we’ll start with that mouth you used to get yourself in trouble.”

The promise hidden beneath his words, sends a thrill through you. Your lips part around a hopeful, little breath and both your hands close around his wrist.

“Really?” You can’t stop the smile beginning to spread. “You’re really gonna let me—”

Joel pulls away before you can finish.

The loss of his body between your thighs leaves you leaning forward on the counter. He takes one step back, gives you enough room to move, and nods towards the floor between his boots.

“Get on your knees.”

Your smile disappears beneath a startled blink.

You had begged to hear those exact words for forever. Still, their abruptness catches you unprepared. Joel has always lifted you from the floor whenever you tried kneeling for him. Now he stands over you expecting obedience, his shirt partly open in his eyes fixed on your face.

And Tommy is directly upstairs. If the floorboards carry even half as much sound upward as they carried his drunken cursing down, he’d be able to hear everything.

But somehow that risk only makes him more eager.

“Now?” you ask.

A hint of affection finally breaks through his stern expression. He reaches for you again, brushing your hair behind your ear before his fingertips trail under your jaw.

“Now, baby.” His thumb passes over your cheek. “C’mon. Been waitin’ so patiently for me, haven’t you?”

You nod eagerly.

He takes your hands as you slide from the counter. He keeps hold of them while you lower yourself, supporting your weight until both of your knees hit the tile. The floor is cold under your skin, but the small discomfort barely lasts once he’s standing above you.

“There.” He smooths your nightgown over your shoulders where the straps have fallen around your arms. His palm remains on the crown of your head afterward, stroking across your hair. “So pretty, darlin’.”

His praise pulls a small smile across your face. You lean into his palm, your cheek brushing the inside of his wrist as your knees inch closer to his boots.

You curl your hands around his calves, as you look up at him, unable to stop touching him now that he’s finally put you where you spent weeks waiting to be. The worn denim under your palms carries the heat of his body; your fingers climb toward his knees until he catches one hand and presses a kiss into its sticky center.

“Eager little thing.” His lips brush your fingertips as he speaks. “Haven’t even told you what to do yet.”

“I know.” You tuck your bottom lip in between your teeth. “Just wanna be good for you.”

“You will be.” He places your hand against your thigh, then gathers your hair behind your head. He twists the length around his fist without pulling, keeping it away from your face. “Gonna teach you. All you gotta do it listen.”

“I’ll listen.”

“I know you will.”

His faith in you makes your chest ache.

Joel brushes his knuckles over your temple, then lets his hand travel down to cup your cheek. The touch carries none of the anger from moments earlier. He holds you as carefully as he does after sex, his thumb moving beneath your eye while he studies your excitement.

“Still got a lesson to learn, baby doll.” His thumb caresses your cheek, while the rest of his hand holds your jaw firmly, keeping your face tipped toward him. “You asked me to teach you, so you listen and take exactly what I give you. Understand?”

You nod, your lashes fluttering faster now.

“Good girl,” he draws out.

Only then does he reach for his belt.

The buckle opens with a muted click above you. Your eyes follow his hands as he pulls the leather free and lets it hang open on either side of his jeans. He takes his time with the button, watching your expression while he lowers the zipper.

Your fingers curl into the denim covering his thigh as he works open the front of his jeans. His eyes drop to your hand, watching it and grip him harder while the zipper begins traveling down.

“Both hands behind your back.”

His command catches you by surprise. You’d assumed he would teach you how to touch him first—guide your hand around the length of him and show you what pressure he liked. Instead, he intends to leave you with nothing except your mouth and whatever he decides to give it.

You hesitate for barely a second before releasing his thigh. Both arms fold obediently behind you, your fingers clasping together against your spine.

He watches you arrange yourself before pushing his jeans lower on his hips.

“Perfect,” he praises, reaching down to sweep more hair away from your face. “You stay just like that for me.”

Your eyes follow his free hand as he finishes popping open the last button on his jeans. The loosened denim has barely begun to separate when a floorboard creeks above the kitchen.

Both of your heads snap upward.

Another groan travels through the wood followed by the muffled scrap of Tommy moving around in the bedroom.

Your face immediately flushes hot.

It was thrilling when he was only a distant threat upstairs. But now, hearing exactly how little separated him from the kitchen reminds you exactly what would happen if he came down here.

There would be no innocent explanation for finding you on your knees with your hands tucked behind your back while his brother stood over you with his pants open.

Tommy would know.

And by morning, he might not be the only one.

You tip your face toward Joel, your eyes wide and searching. “What if he hears us?” you ask nervously. “What if he comes—”

Joel’s palm curved around your cheek, covering nearly half your face as his thumb passes under your lashes. He listens until the floorboards stop creaking above and then returns his attention back to you.

“Then you better not give him a reason to come lookin’.” His pale caresses your cheek again. “Keep that pretty little mouth quiet.”

Your eyes widen a little, suddenly suspecting he intends to test exactly how quiet you can be.

You nod beneath his hand regardless, pressing your lips together around the breath threatening to escape. The danger upstairs now only makes you more eager to prove you can listen.

A small smirk crosses his lip.

His hand lingers against your head while the other finally pushes his jeans and underwear down far enough to free himself.

His cock springs from the waistband and juts rigidly upward, bobbing once before the thick shaft angles toward his stomach. The head is swollen and flushed, a clear bead of precum already shining at the slit under the kitchen light.

Your eyes widen again.

From your knees, all of him seems bigger. His thighs frame your body on either side, blocking anything else beside him. His shirt hangs open above you, exposing his belly and the dark hair interrupted by thin streaks of gray. Even his hands look bigger from down here—one tangled at the back of your head, the other wrapping around the base of his cock.

You stare without attempting to hide it.

And from down here, his cock looks even bigger than it feels inside you. His thick shaft extends past his fist, veined and flushed, with a slight curve toward his stomach. The pale scar crosses one side near the base—the same one you’ve blindly traced with your fingertips in bed—and a few silver strands break through the dark hair surrounding it. His hand can’t even fully close around himself. His swollen head shines only mere inches from your face, and the thought of fitting all of him in your mouth makes your jaw ache, but still, your tongue presses forward inside your mouth at the thought of finally tasting him.

You lean forward on instinct.

The hand he has fisted in your hair tightens and closes near the roots, stopping you several inches away.

“Be patient.”

“I know,” you whine, your body still leaning forward, despite the fist in your hair pulling you back. “But I’ve waited so long,” you add, your eyes still fixed on the shiny tip.

“I know you have.” Joel strokes your hair once, his affection tempering the restraint of his fist. “And you’ve been such a good girl about it, haven’t you?”

You nod, though both of you know tonight has proven otherwise.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Mostly good.”

His free hand reaches past you for the bowl next to the sink. He plucks a strawberry coated in sugar and brings it toward your mouth.

“Open for me.”

Skeptical, you still obey, expecting him to feed it to you. Instead, he presses the berry against your lower lip and drags the wet fruit from one corner to the other. Sugar sticks against your skin, and red juice runs toward your chin, but his thumb follows and wipes it away before it can fall.

“Better use for that mouth.” His thumb smears the juice across your lip. “Should’ve kept it busy with me instead of flirtin’.”

Your brows furrow together again. You’re already forming another protest—ready to remind him that you hadn’t truly been flirting—when he sees it gathering on your face.

“Ah-ah.” He taps the berry against your parted lips, cutting you off before the first word escapes. “No talkin’. Thought you said you were gonna listen.”

Your mouth closes again, though the small crease remains between your brows.

Joel smooths it away with his thumb. “S’my girl. Now bite.”

You sink your teeth into the strawberry. The juice of it bursts all over your tongue and across Joel’s fingers as he holds the rest against your mouth. He waits until you finish chewing before pushing the remaining half between your lips.

“All of it,” he instructs, his fingers still at your lips.

You do as you're told.

You chew and swallow all of it before closing your mouth around his fingers, sucking the sugar from them before he can remove them.

His pupils widen down at you as he scoffs.

“Gonna make this hard for me, aren’t you?”

You release his fingers with an innocent smile. “I’m only listening.”

“Yeah?” he hums, rubbing his thumb over your lip while he strokes himself.

You nod slowly, rejecting the urge to lean forward.

His hand leaves your lip to caress your cheek again, pride and hunger crossing his face equally.

“Let’s see how well you listen with your mouth stuffed full of me.” His thumb collects a final grain of sugar from the corner of your mouth before he brings it to his lips and swipes it clean. “Don’t disappoint me, baby.”

He wraps his fist around the base of his cock and brings the swollen, pink head toward your strawberry-stained lips. He doesn’t let you take him yet. Instead, he drags the tip from one corner of your mouth to the other, smearing the clear bead of precum through the red juice already shining there.

Your lips part beneath the contact, but he pulls back before you can catch him.

“Lick your lips for me, baby girl.”

Your tongue slips out immediately. You trace the path he left across your mouth, gathering strawberry sugar and the first salty taste of him. The mixture coats your tongue—sweet at first, followed by a trace of bitterness that makes you lean forward again.

“Taste good?” he asks, stroking his knuckles over your cheek.

You nod, almost too eagerly.

The hand in your hair holds you in place. “Good. Open wide.”

You part your lips, eager, despite the nerves running through you.

A breath of laughter leaves his nose. “Wider, baby. Ain’t gonna fit in there if you’re shy about it.”

Your cheeks will burn, but you open until the side of your jaw start to ache.

“S’exactly what I needed.” His thumb strokes behind your ear, easing the pull of his fist in your hair. “Knew that greedy little mouth could make room for me.”

He presses the head onto the center of your tongue. His skin is hot against the lingering chill of the fruit in your mouth. He watches your eyes widen as his taste reaches you without the sugar hiding it this time—salt, skin, and the precum slowly leaking from the slit.

“Don’t move yet.” His thumb caresses the base of his cock while it rests heavily on your tongue. “Let yourself get used to me.”

You remain obediently still, your hands still clasped behind your back as your knees start to sting against the tile. You feel the saliva gathering beneath him and starting to slip over your lower lip.

Instinctively, you start to free one your hands to wipe the saliva gathering under your lip, but you don’t get very far. Joel is already drawing the head outward, spreading the wetness across your tongue with it before pressing it in again.

“Close.”

You do.

Your lips seal around the swollen tip, straining at the corners to accommodate the girth. He lets it rest there for a moment, letting you feel the weight of him on your tongue.

“Suck.”

Your cheeks hollow around him at the command.

Pleasure passes openly across his face when you suck for the first time. His sucks in a quick breath, and the fist holding your hair closes until a pleasant pull spreads across your scalp.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises. “Mouth was made for me, wasn’t it?”

His approval makes you suck harder.

He draws himself out until your lips catch beneath the ridge of his head, then guide you forward again, another inch filling your mouth. The thick vein under his shaft drags across your tongue, and you press upward against it, eager to discover what earns another reaction from him.

When his hips jerk toward you, you glance up. Delighted.

“Don’t look so proud.” The corner of his mouth lifts despite the scolding. “Keep your tongue right there.”

You do, tracing the vein each time he moves between your lips. He feeds you more with every pass, guiding your head through the hand wrapped around your hair. He leaves you enough time to adjust before it reaches the back of your tongue.

And your throat immediately resists.

A gag contracts around him, and your shoulders jerk. He withdraws before panic can follow, leaving only the tip resting between your lips while his palm moves in your hair.

“Easy, baby.” His thumb strokes beneath your eye, collecting the first tear before it can travel down your cheek. “Ain’t gotta take all of me yet. You’re learnin’.”

You whine around the head, frustrated with your own body.

“I know.” Joel taps the tip against your tongue. “Want it all right away, don’t you?”

You nod as much as his grip permits.

“Greedy girl.” His affection softens the tease as his hands leave his cock to pass over your cheek again. “Take what I give you. We’ll get you there.”

He presses forward again.

 You concentrate on keeping your jaw loose, and your tongue flattened under him. When the head reaches the back of your mouth again, your eyes water, but he holds you there for a second, forcing it, before drawing it out.

“Good.” His thumb catches another tear. “Again.”

He wraps his hand back around the base and guides the length of him farther into the back of your mouth.

You get farther this time.

Saliva spills over your lower lip and runs onto your chin. Your hands twitch behind your back, desperate to wipe it away or reach for his thighs, but he watches closely enough to notice.

“Hands stay where I put ‘em.”

Your fingers clasp tighter against your spine and the smirk on his face dampens your thighs.

He continues guiding you. Each pass pushes another fraction of him beyond your lips until your nose nearly reaches the dark hair at his base. Your jaw burns, and the tile is biting even harder into your knees now.

But none of it matters when Joel’s composure is starting to come apart above you.

His chest is rising fast up and down under his open shirt, the muscles across his stomach squeeze whenever you suck, and his hand has started to grip tighter into your hair, a small sting forming at the base of your scalp.

And now you finally understand why he kept refusing you.

He hadn’t been worried you would enjoy this. He’d been worried about how much he would.

That makes you moan loudly around him.

His eyes flick toward the ceiling and his grip tightens again in your scalp.

“Gotta keep those pretty noises down, baby,” he reminds you, his thumb passing across your wet cheek. “Don’t wanna get in trouble now do we?”

You shake your head at the warning, but it sends another pulse through your underwear, and you have to press your thighs together, but the position offers no release.

Joel’s eyes drop to your legs pressing together under him.

“Gettin’ off on this, aren’t you?” He eases his cock from your mouth, leaving you gasping under him. “Kneelin’ there with your hands behind your back while I use this sweet little mouth.”

You nod fast, trying to swallow whatever he left on your tongue.

He smirks. “Can see it all over that pretty face.”

He reaches past you and toward the glass of milk sweating on the counter. The condensation wets his fingers as he lifts it in front of you.

Your eyes follow the glass until it’s right between you. “What—” You choke a little on your next swallow. “What’re you—”

“Thought I said no talkin’?”

You swallow, closing your parted lips.

He caresses your cheek with the back of his finger. “Open.”

You hesitate for just one second before your lips part on their own, your tongue slipping out in the process.

The hand in your hair loosens to come to the base of his cock. He tips the glass and pours a small amount on him. The milk strikes his swollen head and runs along his shaft in little pale streams, carrying traces of your spit with it. Drop after drop falls onto your waiting tongue, and the rest travels across his knuckles and drips from his fist onto the front of your nightgown.

Cold milk splashes against your chest and the white cotton darkens and clings to your nipples as they tighten under your nightgown.

Joel watches one drop travel beneath your neckline before his thumb presses at the bottom of your lip, dragging it down and directing your attention back to the milk running down the length of him.

“Clean me up.”

You hesitate again, but it barely lasts a second before you’re leaning forward, licking the milk from the underside of his cock. Your tongue follows it from the base toward the head, gathering every drop along with the salt on his skin. He allows you to reach the tip before he takes hold of your hair again.

“Open wider.”

You obey, and he presses into your mouth.

Milk spills around the sides of his shaft when your lips close. It runs over your chin and down your throat, joining the damp patches across your chest.

The first taste is mostly milk, a little cold and creamy on your tongue. Then you suck harder and find the familiar taste of Joel under it, salty and a little musky, and that bitter little trace that’s waiting at the tip.

You suck until there’s nothing left except the taste of him and the slightest trace of milk and strawberry on your tongue.

“Such a good, fuckin’ girl,” He groans.

His thumb sweeps through the mess beneath your lip, but instead of wiping it away, he smears it across your cheek. “Finally got what you wanted, and you’re already covered in it.”

He drives into your mouth again.

“Should’ve put you on your knees weeks ago.”

You gag around him again, closing your eyes, trying to fight the gag—the pain of it every time it hits the sensitive part at the back of your throat—but Joel’s hand is already lifting under your chin, stroking the underside of it.

“Keep those pretty eyes open for me, baby.”

Your lashes lift reluctantly, wet and clumped together. Tears blur him at first, turning his face into hazy mess above you, but you blink until he comes back into focus and holds his stare, despite the reflex still fluttering through your throat.

And you watch his face change.

The tenderness remains in his hand, cradling your jaw, but hunger takes over the last of his restraint. He guides you forward, pushing past the depth that made you gag earlier.

Your throat fully contracts around the head this time.

He pulls back, then presses in again before you can fully recover. The movement becomes faster now, driven more by his hips and the hand holding your hair. Every thrust fills your mouth with the taste left on his skin and forces another wet sound from your lips.

“Wanted me to use you,” he says, clearly fighting to whisper but losing. “This what you were beggin’ for?”

You nod around him, another gag slipping out.

“Could’ve had this instead of lettin’ that drunk flirt with you.”

The mention of Tommy makes you whine.

He drives his hips forward again and pushes his cock to the back of your throat, and keeps it there, holding you full while your eyes spill over. His thumb caresses your temple, reassuring you even as his fist prevents you from escaping the pressure.

“S’mouth belongs to me, baby girl.” He withdraws enough to let air pass through your nose without obstruction. “You remember that next time you think about usin’ it to make me jealous.”

You nod eagerly.

The second your head stops moving, Joel begins fucking your mouth in earnest.

His hips meet your lips with each thrust. Saliva strings between your chin and his shaft whenever he pulls back, broken only when he pushes into you again. Your throat opens for him more easily now, though every third or fourth thrust still makes you gag.

At each time, Joel watches.

He eases when your body needs him to and pushes farther when he sees your fingers remain obediently folded behind your back. His control never disappears entirely, though. One hand uses your hair to guide you; the other pets your face, wipes tears from your cheeks, and checks the muscles working beneath your jaw.

“Take a little more for me,” he breathes.

Your jaw is already stretched as far as it’ll go, the tendons on both sides starting to ache, but you listen and force your mouth wider.

He presses in until your nose meets the damp hair at his base. His cock fills your throat, leaving no room for even a little sound, let alone air. Tears slip freely while he holds you there— not from the pain, but from the reflex your body can’t suppress and the overwhelming satisfaction of finally taking him this far.

A trimmer runs through the thigh beside your cheek, his grip stutters in your hair, then closes again as his hips twitch against your face.

“Jesus, fuckin’ Christ,” he drags out, his head tipping back.

The sounds scraped out of him make the ache worthwhile by itself.

When he finally pulls out, you drag air through your swollen lips as fast as you can. Saliva and leftover milk coat your chin, and strawberry juice stains the corners of your mouth pink. He gives you only a few seconds before tapping the heavy head against your tongue again.

“Still my eager girl?”

You try to speak—to tell him yes. That you can take more—but all you can manage is another eager nod.

“Exactly where you wanna be, huh?”

You nod again, already parting your lips.

He swipes his thumb along your bottom lip and brings it to his mouth. “Greedy girl.”

He feeds himself back into your mouth slowly, and you take him with renewed enthusiasm. You work your tongue under the head and suck hard whenever he withdraws.

You start to feel his cock pulsing more frequently, each throb kicking against your lips. His movements start losing their rhythm, and the hand in your hair trembles. A broken sound catches behind his teeth when you swallow around the tip on the next thrust.

You already know what’s coming before he even has to tell you.

Excitement makes you suck harder.

Joel curses loudly under his breath, and the fist in your hair pulls so tight your scalp starts to throb. He pulls you back until only the head rests against your lower lip while his fists move over the slick shaft, spreading saliva with every pass.

“Gonna come, baby.” His free hand cups your cheek, his thumb wiping a tear from under your lashes. “Want it in your mouth. Tell me you can take it.”

Your head bobs up and down, your sore knees dragging across the floor as you try to scoot closer.

“Y-yes,” you swallow, your lips trembling around the words. “I can take it. P-please.”

This is the part you’ve replayed in your head for months now. The thought of finally getting to taste Joel’s release on your tongue has your fingernails digging into the palms of your hands behind you.

The muscles across his cock jump at your answer. And his thumb moves from your cheek to your lower lip and draws it down.

“So proud of you darlin’,” he coos. His fist starts pumping against his shaft, firmer now. “Gonna keep those pretty eyes up for me and keep that mouth open, yeah?”

You nod eagerly, a breathless “Yes” slipping out before you open wide and extend your tongue beneath him.

He positions the swollen tip in the center, his hand gripping back into your hair firmly enough to keep it exactly where he wants it.

“Stay just like that,” he hums, his fist working faster now. “Gonna give that perfect mouth everything It’s been askin’ for.”

You stay open under him, your tongue shaky, and your eyes glued to his face. His hand moves over his shaft in quick strokes, carrying the mixture of sweat and saliva from the base to the head. Each pass forces another little clear bead from the slit and leaves his cock shining under the kitchen light.

You watch as his expression begins to break apart above you.

The muscles in his forearms are straining, and his lips try to separate around a breath, but it stops halfway out. The fingers threaded through your hair flex hard enough to send another sting across your scalp while you fight the urge to close your mouth around him.

He told you to stay open, and you want to prove that you can follow every instruction he gives you.

“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he hums, tapping the tip against your tongue.

The last of whatever restraint Joel was fighting, breaks through him on the first pulse against your tongue.

The first release spills into the center of your mouth, hot and thick enough to startle you. Salt spreads across your tongue and cuts through the strawberry sugar that was still lingering there.

Then his hip jerk again.

The second spurt reaches farther back, striking near the roof of your mouth before sliding toward your throat. Your tongue dips under the sudden weight of it, and your lips twitch with the instinct to close.

“Keep it open, baby,” he groans, his fist continuing to work over himself. “Doin’ so good.”

You force your jaw wider, blinking up at him.

Another thick release coats your tongue, joining the first two until there’s enough to pool beneath it. The taste is stronger now—salty, musky, and slightly bitter beneath the milk still sticking to the insides of your cheeks. The strawberry barely clings to your lips now, making every part of him taste stronger.

His eyes remain fixed on the pearly streaks, coating your tongue as his fist drags over his swollen head again. A final hard pulse sends another spurt toward the back of your mouth before you can prepare for it, and your throat contracts around it.

A loud gag jerks through you, sharp enough to make tears spill from your eyes. Your fingers tear apart behind your back, but you manage to keep them there while you fight the reflex to swallow.

Joe immediately angles his cock away from your throat. The hand in your hair loosens, his fingertips caressing your scalp instead of holding you in place.

“Easy, sweetheart.” His thumb reaches down to wipe the tear traveling over your cheek. “Got a lot in that little mouth of yours, don’t you?”

You nod carefully, terrified of spilling any.

Pride softens his face as he traces the swollen corners of your lips, catching the thin white line threatening to escape. His thumb pushes it back onto your tongue.

“Kept every drop,” he says, his chest rising and falling. His knuckles stroke your cheek. “Made for me aren’t you?”

Your jaw aches from remaining open, and that thick mixture is starting to slide towards the back of your throat again. Joel lets you hold it only long enough to admire the sight.

You can only imagine what he sees.

Your swollen mouth held wide, your tongue cupped and shaking beneath the pearly white pool he left there, another thin streak slipping free and trailing down the corner of your mouth.

The half empty glass of milk enters your peripheral, streams of it coating the sides, and your certain the two look obscenely similar.

“Go head and close, baby,” he hums, passing his thumb over your swollen bottom lip.

You seal your lips.

The taste is stronger now without the air between you. His release coats the inside of your cheeks and clings to the roof of your mouth, mixing with the last traces of milk and strawberry until you can just barely taste all three with every swirl of your tongue.

His palm cups beneath your chin.

“Swallow.”

Your throat works beneath his hand.

The first swallow clears only part of it. The thickness sticks near the back of your throat and forces you to swallow again, your eyes watering as it travels down. A small amount remains across your tongue, salty enough to make your lips purse.

Joel watches every movement in a trance.

He grips your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. “One more.”

You obey, swallowing until your mouth is empty, except for the taste he left behind.

You drag your tongue across your bottom lip, savoring the saltines of him, and wishing he had given you just a little more.

“Open,” Joel demands.

You part your lips and stick out your tongue for him.

A thin pearly trace remains near the corner, and Joel wipes it forward with his thumb, pressing it into the center, and waits until you close your lips around him.

You wrap your swollen lips around his thumb and suck it clean.

“S’my perfect, perfect girl.” His other hand strokes across your hair, repairing the strands his fists disturbed. “Took everything I gave you and more.”

The approval makes you smile weakly around his thumb.

He withdraws it and caresses your sticky cheek. His cock stands hard enough to hang heavily from his open jeans, damp with saliva, and the release you hadn’t managed to catch.

His hand slides from your cheek to your throat. His fingers close around it and draw you upward while his other arm catches your waist, hauling you from the floor until your body presses tight against him. Your knees are sore and weak; you barely have time to straighten before his mouth is on yours.

He kisses you with none of his earlier patience. His lips force yours apart and his tongue sweeps inside as though he intends to taste every trace of himself you swallowed. The force of it tips your head back against his palm and leaves you clinging to his open shirt.

His grip remains firm around your throat, pressing beneath your jaw while you cling to him.

“Taste so good,” he mutters against your mouth.

You try to kiss him again, but his hand keeps your head tipped back.

“Mouth took me so well,” he whispers into your mouth, his grip still firm on your throat. “Wanna see how well the rest of you does.

You moan against the hand around your throat and the length of him dancing between your sticky thighs.

“P-Please,” Joel,” you whine, trying to inch closer to him.

“Please what?” he asks, his hand gripping tighter around your waist.

“Please, f-fuck me,” you whisper.

He presses a kiss under your chin and onto your mouth, swallowing the desperate sound that follows when he turns you around.

“Anythin’ you want, darlin’.”

He pushes your front against the counter and gathers your nightgown above your hips. Cool air reaches the damp fabric between your legs as he hooks his hand behind one knee and lifts it onto the counter, leaving you exposed with your other foot barely touching the floor.

The bowl, now holding nothing but strawberry syrup, rattles beside your elbow, pink juice lapping against the porcelain while Joel pulls your underwear aside.

His fingers swipe through your folds, gathering the slickness there before chasing it back toward your clit. The brief contact pulls a helpless moan from you, your hips bucking into his hand and searching for more.

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, pressing a kiss beneath your ear as his fingers caress you again. “Gonna let me fuck that ache away?”

You whimper at his touch, your head nodding helplessly as your cheek rubs against his. “Y-yes. Please, Joel.”

“Don’t worry baby.” He pulls your hips firmly against his. “Gonna take such good care of you.”

He wraps one arm around your waist and positions his swollen head at your entrance. Then he drives inside, filling you in one firm thrust that forces your hands against the counter and sends the bowl rattling toward the wall.

The sudden fullness forces a full-on cry from your chest. His palm rises from between you and wraps around your mouth before the sound can carry upstairs.

“Keep it down, he warns into your ear. “Can’t let him hear us.”

You nod against his hand, tears threatening your eyes.

He releases his it from around your mouth and wraps it back around your throat. He drives into you again, hard enough to push your hip into the counter—hard enough to bruise probably. He doesn’t fuck you with the same patience he usually does. Each drive of his cock forces you onto your toes, your lifted leg trembling beside the bowl while his fingers dig into the flesh at your hips.

It’s exactly what you wanted from him.

His pleasure without apology. His body using your instead of arranging every touch around your comfort. Still though, his care survives inside the roughness—his arm braces your chest when your elbow threatens to buckle, and his palm muffles each cry without stealing your air.

“Takin’ me so well,” he praises into your hair. “Knew I’d fuck that little game right outta you.”

His words send you over faster than either of you expects.

Your body clamps around him, puling hard enough to interrupt his rhythm. His hand leaves your mouth and curls around your throat again, holding you upright while your orgasm tears through you.

“Joel—” you whine.

“I know, baby.” His lips press against your temple. “Ride it out.”

He fucks you through the final contractions, his strokes turning uneven as your body keeps gripping him.

“Missed you so damn much,” he whispers into your ear.

Then his hips drive flush against you and remain there while his cock pulses inside you.

Hot release fills you in several thick spurts, each one accompanied by Joel’s fingers in your mouth to muffle your whimpers. His face buries against your hair as he holds you against his chest until the last twitch passes.

For several seconds, neither of you moves. It’s just the sound of his breathing in your ear and the sound of you gasping for air.

Then Joel lowers your leg and turns you carefully in his arms. Your knees nearly give out, but he catches you and wraps both his arm around your waist before you can fall.

His hand caresses the throat he was just gripping, and he presses a wet kiss to the side of your mouth.

“Learn your lesson?”

You nod, exhausted and pleased, because that’s all you can manage.

Joel raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” you correct yourself, still breathing heavy. “I’ll come to you next time. P-promise.”

“S’right.” He kisses your forehead and draws your nightgown back over your thighs with his free hand. “My good girl.”

You curl against his chest, smiling into his shirt.

“It worked, though.”

His palm comes down quick against your sore ass, loud enough to make a noise that he doesn’t seem to care about.

it literally makes finding ideas and writing so much more funnnn

anyway here’s my mood board so far for the fic im working on rn 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

update: i totally lied lol

i got about halfway through this and absolutely hated it so im pivoting... to something a lot ... sweeter....(;

pairing: !joel miller x f!reader wc: 12k (i dont think ill ever be able to write a oneshot under 10k...)

summary: you were supposed to marry someone else today... until joel miller showed up...

୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧

tags: modern AU (no outbreak), age gap(reader age not explicitly stated but is younger than joel), no smut (srryyy it just didnt fit), heavy angst, mutual pining, emotional infidelity, hurt/comfort, second chance romance, exes to lovers, right person wrong time, happy ending♡

୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧・┈・୨୧

a/n: buckle up for some angst!

You always knew it was Joel.

Even now, standing on the edge of forever with someone else, that truth sat heavy in your chest like a second heartbeat you could never quite silence.  Joel Miller had carved himself into your soul in a way no one else ever had, or ever would. Right person, wrong time – the cruelest kind of love story.

The breakup had been mutual in the end, but you were the one who initiated it.

It happened on a rainy Tuesday night almost five years ago. You were both exhausted and drained —  from work, from life, from each other. You sat on your couch, knees pulled to your chest, and finally said the words that had been weighing on you for months: you weren’t ready. Work was swallowing you whole back then. You were climbing the corporate ladder fast—you had little time for anything else and you were terrified of slowing down or committing to anything serious before you even knew who you were on your own. You needed space to figure yourself out.

Joel had listed quietly, jaw tight and eyes tired. He didn’t fight you. He was struggling too – emotionally unavailable in ways he didn’t know how to fix, always keeping a piece of himself locked away. And the age gap had started to wear on him more than he let on; he could never fully shake the feeling that he was holding you back from the life you deserved, that someone your age should be with a man who didn’t already feel a decade older in every way. On top of that, his work schedule kept him busy too, it was extremely demanding and kept him gone for long stretches, leaving him distant even when he was physically there.

So you ended it together.

Both of you cried. Both of you held each other like the damn world was ending.  And when the storm outside finally quieted, you made a promise through shaky voices and broken cries that you’d stay friends. Because the love you had for each other was still there—it would always be—it just wasn’t the right time for it to live inside a relationship.

That promise lasted a little less than a year.

Late-night phone calls turned into “I miss you” texts, which turned into “What if we tried again?” texts. But the timing was never right. When you were finally ready to dive back in, Joel was seeing someone—someone his age probably. Someone who probably had a lot more to offer than you did. And when Joel was ready, you had just stared something casual with another guy. The window kept closing before either of you could step through it.

Even after that, you both tried really hard to stay in each others lives. You kept texting more than you probably should have – good morning messages, late-night phone calls, sharing songs or silly things that reminded you of each other. You met for coffee a few times, even had a couple of long dinners that felt dangerously close to dates.

And your new partners hated it.

They could feel the unfinished history between you, the lingering pull, the way both of you would drop everything to help the other. Your boyfriends could never understand why you were still so caught up on a man old enough to be your father. They couldn’t figure out what hold he had on you, and it made them insecure, resentful. Joel’s girlfriends especially despised the idea of him staying close with his much younger ex who clearly still had his heart.  The jealousy turned into arguments, ultimatums and guilt trips. Slowly, painfully, the contact faded. The texts and late-night phone calls became rarer, then stopped completely.

Almost five years of complete silence.

You told yourself it was for the best. You moved on. You met Alex.

You’d met him at a charity gala – one of those stiff, upscale events your company forced you to attend. He was there representing his finance firm, charming donors with effortless confidence. He spilled a drink on you by accident, then spent the next twenty minutes making you laugh so hard you forgot to be annoyed at the fact that your favorite dress was ruined.

From that night on, Alex was your person. He had a steady corporate job, a bright smile that reached his eyes, and a way of making your ordinary days feel extraordinary. He planned thoughtful dates, remembered your coffee order, and never made you guess how he felt. He didn’t carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He didn’t consume you until the love felt like both oxygen and drowning all at once. He didn’t look at you like he’d burn everything down just to keep you warm—like Joel did—and that was okay. He simply loved you – quietly, consistently, without drama or his own walls getting in the way.

Around a year ago, he got down on one knee with a ring that costs more than your car in front of a view that you only ever dreamed about, and asked you to marry him — and you said yes, because you loved him. It was real. It was comfortable.

But it had never once felt like Joel.

And yet— you still invited him to the wedding.

The idea had lingered in the back of your mind for moths, even as you picked out flowers and tasted wedding cake samples with Alex. You and Joel had made a silly, half-drunken promise some months after the breakup, during one of those long, late dinners you kept having while you were trying (and failing) to stay friends.

You were a little tipsy on cheap red wine, Joel was one too many whiskeys deep, sitting across from each other in a small corner booth at your favorite Italian place in the city. The conversation turned bittersweet and nostalgic, as it often did. You traced the rim of your glass with your fingertip, smiling despite the ache in your chest, and finally said, “Even if we never figure this out...” you said through a shaky laugh. “I’m still showing up to your wedding one day. I need to see who finally manages to lock you down.”

Joel had stared at you for a long moment, his eyes warm and fond in the low candlelight. Then he reached across the table, took your hand, and spoke in that soft, gravelly voice that always made your chest ache.

“Maybe one day we’ll actually get it right,” he said softly, a quiet note of hope in his tone. “But if we don’t... deal.” His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles. “I’ll be at yours too, darlin’. Wouldn’t miss seeing the man lucky enough to marry you. Just hope he knows how special you are.”

It was sweet. Almost too sweet for two people who had just broken each other’s hearts only a few months ago. But the promise stuck with you.

So even after the years of silence, you mailed him an invitation. They were way fancier than anything you would’ve picked out on your own. Thick cream cardstock with real gold foil lettering, yours and Alex’s names embossed at the top like it belonged in a magazine. The date, venue, and all the extra fancy details written out in beautiful script below, with a little RSVP card tucked inside that had two checkboxes: one for “Yes” and one for “No." And Joel’s name on the envelope in your prettiest handwriting.

Three weeks later, a thick envelope showed up in your mailbox and inside was the little RSVP card tucked in it. He had checked the box for “Yes” and added a small handwritten note on the card in that messy, familiar scrawl:

Wouldn’t miss it.

Your stomach did a full flip and you stood there in your kitchen like an idiot, running your thumb over the dried ink for way too long, like you could still feel him through the paper.

———

The engagement party was ridiculous.

Because Alex came from money—serious money – he insisted on making the night huge. “We should make the engagement party insane,” he’d said with that charming smile of his. “Just all our friends, no family – so everyone can actually let loose and celebrate without any of that formal stuff.”  You hadn’t really cared either way – if Alex wanted a big blowout with all his friends, you were fine with it. So he did it—and ended up inviting half the wedding list to the engagement party.

He went all out on his side – basically every friend he’d ever had. His old college buddies, his finance team, the guys he played golf with, plus a ton of his work colleagues and their partners.

Your own list was much smaller in comparison. Honestly, most of the people coming to the wedding were from Alex’s side anyway, so you invited just about all of your friends – your closest girlfriends, a handful of coworkers you actually liked, and a couple of family friends that weren’t technically family. You weren’t used to weddings or engagement parties this massive. It still felt a little overwhelming.

And then there was Joel.

At first, you weren’t even going to invite him. Alex still had no idea who Joel was, and you figured it probably wasn’t smart to introduce your ex at your own engagement party. But the thought of seeing him for the first time on your actual wedding day felt worse. You told yourself the engagement party would be less awkward – you’d be busy playing hostess, surrounded by people, exchanging casualties, so you probably wouldn’t even talk to him much anyway. So you slipped his name onto your list and mailed it before you could talk yourself out of it.

In the end, Alex’s huge circle of friends completely overshadowed your much, much smaller one, packing the rooftop of the city’s most expensive hotel full.

String lights draped from every beam, champagne towers shimmering under the lights, and a live jazz band playing soft, casual music that mixed with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. There were easily two hundred plus people here, all dressed to impress, and the whole thing felt like the actual wedding rather than an engagement party.

And you were in the middle of it all, playing the part of the happy fiancée perfectly. You’d just finished thanking what felt like the hundredth group of Alex’s colleagues for coming when one of them cracked a stupid joke about marriage. You forced out a polite little laugh, took a sip of your champagne to cover it, and casually let your eyes drift across the rooftop while you swallowed.

You spotted a few of your girlfriends laughing near the bar, and you waved at them with a small smile and a sarcastic eye roll. Alex was a little further away, deep in conversation with some of his buddies, gesturing animatedly.  A couple of your coworkers were posing for photos by the string lights. Everything looked perfect, manicured—exactly how Alex wanted it.

You were just about to join back into the conversation when you spotted him.

Joel.

He was standing just to the side of the entrance, hands adjusting the last button of his collard shirt, sleeves rolled up to those strong forearms you used to trace with your fingertips, and his favorite worn jeans that somehow still fit him perfectly. His once-dark-brown hair had faded into salt-and-pepper and was a touch longer than you remembered, paired with that familiar scruff along his jaw. He looked exactly like the man you’d fallen in love with—only better—and you didn’t even think that was possible. Exactly like the one you’d tried so hard to forget.

For a second, it felt like the entire rooftop disappeared. The cheesy music, the lights, the two hundred guests – everything, gone.  Your heart slammed against your chest so hard you actually pressed a hand there like it might calm it down. Heat rushed up your neck and your entire mouth went dry like you had stuffed it full of cotton.

He spotted you at the exact same moment. His big brown eyes locked onto yours across the crowd, and the corner of his mouth ticked up into that small, crooked smile you still dreamed about sometimes. You didn’t even think before you started moving. You murmured a quick “excuse me” to the group you’d been talking to and started toward him. Your heels clicked across the rooftop floors, silk dress swaying around your legs, and Joel moved to meet you like gravity was pulling you both together.

You stopped just a foot away from him. For a long second, neither of you said anything. You just stared at each other like you were the only people in the room. Then his arms opened, and you stepped right into them without hesitation.

You audibly exhaled the second you reached up on your tiptoes and wrapped your arms around his neck.

You meant to hug him politely—like a friend— you did, but instead, your arms wrapped around his neck like they still belonged there. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in – cedar, soap, a hint of bourbon, and that unmistakable Joel scent that still—embarrassingly, felt like home. He held you so tight, one hand slowly rubbing up and down your spine while the other stayed at the small of your back. The hug went on way longer than it should have for two people who were supposed to be old friends. But you didn’t care – not right now – not when you were finally getting to wrap your arms around the man you’d shamelessly missed so damn much.

“Hey, darlin’,” he murmured into your hair, that familiar drawl sending a shiver straight down your back.

“Joel...” you whisper, hugging him a little tighter.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were softer, searching your face like he was memorizing every tiny change. His hands lingered on your waist a little longer, drawing small strokes up and down with his thumb.

“I didn’t know if you’d actually show up,” you admitted, trying to smile.

His thumb brushed over your hip one last time before he pulled his hand away. “Told you I wouldn’t miss it.” That crooked smile deepened. “Couldn’t miss meetin’ the man who finally won your heart.”

You let out a soft, shaky laugh and swatted at his arm. “Shut up.”

He laughed quietly, almost to himself, before he took a step back and let his eyes drag slowly down your body – taking in the way the silky fabric hugged your waist and hips, the way it shimmered under the string lights. When his gaze finally met yours again, his eyebrows had lifted a little, and those big brown eyes were a little softer than before.

“Wow...” he chuckles, shaking his head. His eyes dance across the length of you again before they came back up. “You look absolutely beautiful, darlin’.” He takes a small half-step closer, his voice dropping a little. “And you just had to wear my favorite color, didn’t you?”

Your cheeks flush hot. You smile shyly and glance down at the emerald silk, smoothing your hands over the fabric self-consciously.

You’d actually been torn between two dresses as you were getting ready earlier. One was an elegant champagne-colored gown Alex had absolutely loved. He’d told you it made you look refined and classy, like the perfect future wife who belonged on his arm at galas and fancy dinners – sophisticated and “appropriate.”

The other was this deep emerald green silk that hugged your curves and made your eyes pop and skin glow. You knew Joel had always loved you in green. It did something to him – brought out this hungry, almost possessive look in his eyes. Every single time you’d worn that color back when you were together, his hands couldn’t stay off you. He’d get this look in his eyes like he wanted to devour you right there.

Similar to the one he has now.

You told yourself you picked the green because it made you feel confident. Because it was your favorite too. Not because there was a chance Joel might show up at your party tonight. Definitely not because of Joel.

“It looks even better on you than I remember,” he adds, smiling to himself.

 You let out a soft, teasing laugh and shake your head. “Joel...” you say, his name laced with playful disbelief.

He chuckles quietly, eyes full of warmth. “I mean it. Seein’ you like this tonight... you look incredible.”

You feel your cheeks redden again and you bring a hand up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and meet his eyes. “Thank you, Joel.”

You lift your head, nodding at him.  “You look really good too. I like your hair longer like this... and the gray. It suits you.” You tilt your head, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “I always told you to grow it out and let the gray show, remember? Took you long enough to finally listen to me.”

He lets out a chuckle and runs a hand through his hair, pushing the longer strands back as an almost bashful smile crosses his face. “Yeah... you always did know what looked best on me,” he says, laughing. “Still a little stubborn, I guess.”

You smile, a little flutter in your chest at the sight of him looking so unexpectedly shy. “I’m just glad you finally took my advice,” you tease gently. “It really does look good.”

Your fingers twitch at your side. You used to run your hands through his hair without thinking – it was something you did all the time, playing with the strands, tugging them gently when you kissed him, brushing it back like he’d just done. The urge hit you so strongly for a second that you had to physically stop yourself, curling your fingers into your palm. You aren’t allowed to do that anymore.

Joel smiled for another second, then it faded some. He looked at you for a long second, something heavier in his eyes.

“Guess a lot of things are takin’ me longer than they should these days.”

Your smile fades and your face drops slightly as a wave of sadness washes over you, the playful spark you had just seconds ago fading into something sadder, more vulnerable – because you know exactly what he means. But it’s too late now. Everything is too late.

“Joel...” you whisper, his name breaking a little as it leaves your lips. You open your mouth to say something else – anything – but before you can find the words,

“Hey!” One of your girlfriends calls your name from across the balcony, waving you over with a bright smile. “We need you for pictures! Hurry!”

You turn toward your friend for a second before turning back to Joel. Your eyes are soft and full of quiet regret as you meet his.

“I’m sorry,” you say gently. “I’ll come find you later, okay? Don’t go far.”

Joel gives you a small nod. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You manage a small, sad smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, then turn and walk back towards your friends. Your heart growing heavier with each step.

The next half hour passes in a blur of forced smiles and constant motion. Your girlfriends pull you into a big group photo, then another... after that, you stop counting. You laugh at their jokes and pose like you’re having the time of your life, but your mind keeps drifting, drifting back to Joel.

After the pictures, Alex finds you and keeps you close, introducing you to more of his colleagues and their partners. You shake hands, accept congratulations, and make small talk about the wedding while Alex’s arm stays wrapped around your waist.

You float around the party like you’re expected to – smiling, thanking people, sipping champagne that tastes like nothing. Every few minutes, your eyes scan the crowd, searching.

You spot Joel at the bar. He’s leaning against the counter with a glass of whiskey in his hand, talking to some guy you don’t recognize. He looks calm, but you notice the way his shoulders are a little tense. He laughs at something the man says, but you can tell it isn’t a real one.

Then, a little while after that, you catch him in a conversation with two of Alex’s golf buddies. He’s being polite, nodding along, but you can tell from the set of his jaw that he couldn’t care less about what they’re talking about. He glances up, and your eyes meet across the rooftop for a brief second that feels like forever and the look he gives you is sad, full of everything he didn’t get to say earlier.

You get pulled into yet another conversation with Alex’s friends, forced to laugh at a story about their last trip to Europe, all while your chest feels tight. Every time you try to slip away, someone else calls your name, or Alex wraps his arm around your waist and steers you toward a new group.

All the while, Joel stays on the edge of things. Present, but never fully part of the celebration. But you can’t blame him. How could you?

You finally slip away when the party hits a natural lull – most people are gathered near the bar for another round of drinks or crowding around Alex as he tells another one of his loud work stories. Your girlfriends are deep in conversation and laughing; everyone too occupied with themselves to notice you disappear.

You murmur something about needing the restroom and disappear into the crowd before anyone can follow you.

It doesn’t take you long to find him.

He’s tucked away in a quiet, dimly lit corner of the rooftop terrace, partially hidden behind a tall planter overcrowding with flowers. He’s leaning against the railing with a glass of barely-touched whiskey in his hand, looking out over the city like the rest of the noisy party doesn’t exist.

You walk up slowly, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Wow,” you say teasingly, stopping a few feet away. “ Look at you... sulking in the corner like you’re too cool for the rest of us. Very mysterious, Mr. Miller.”

He turns his head, and the moment his eyes land on you, that familiar crooked smile returns. He lets out a small laugh and shakes his head.

“Yeah, well…” he drawls, teasing you right back, “someone’s gotta keep the wall company. Figured I’d give the rest of these fancy people some space.” He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. “Besides... I was waitin’ for you to escape.”

The tension that had been sitting heavy in your chest eases the second he says it. Just like that, the years melt away. The rhythm between you clicks back into place like no time has passed at all.

You step closer and lean against the railing beside him, close enough that your arm brushes his. “I’m glad you’re here,” you say quietly. “It means a lot.”

He turns his head to look at you fully, his half-smile deepening, eyes gentle in the low light.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “Good. ‘Cause I’m glad I'm here too.”

He takes another swig of his drink, then turns around and leans his back against the railing, facing the lively party behind you. He gestures loosely with his glass toward the string lights, the champagne towers, the crowd laughing and mingling.

“This is some engagement party,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Y’all really went all out, huh?”

You let out a small laugh and turn around too, leaning back against the railing beside him, close enough you can smell him again.

“This wasn’t my idea. Trust me,” you say, shaking your head. “Alex is...” You hesitate for a second, searching for the right words. “He likes big gestures. This is actually pretty tame compared to what he wanted to do.”

Joel raises an eyebrow, waiting.

You continue with a small, slightly embarrassed smile, lifting your hand to cover your face for a second. “He originally wanted to rent a yacht for the night... full party on the water,” you admit, peeking through your fingers. “I barely talked him down to this rooftop thing.”

You feel a little flush of embarrassment because this kind of extravagance still feels foreign to you. Alex is so materialistic – he loves big, flashy gestures and showing off what he can afford. You and Joel were never like that. The two of you used to make fun of people exactly like Alex, rolling your eyes at over-the-top displays of wealth while splitting cheap takeout on his couch. Now here you are, throwing the kind of party you both would’ve mocked years ago.

Joel lets out a low huff of a laugh, almost under his breath. He glances out at the glittering party for a moment before looking back at you, his expression somewhere between amused and knowing.

"A yacht, huh?" His voice is warm but dry. “That’s a hell of a step up from late nights in my old truck.”

You let out another soft, slightly embarrassed laugh and shake your head, leaning a little more against the railing beside him.

“Yeah... tell me about it,” you say, voice quiet. “It still feels weird sometimes. All of this.” You gesture vaguely toward the lights and crowd.

You look down for a second, a soft laugh slipping out as you shake your head at yourself. Then you lift your eyes back to his, a gentle, nostalgic smile on your face.

“God, remember that one time I was craving pancakes at like one in the morning?” you ask, fond with the memory. “I wouldn’t stop talking about that little diner I loved – the one with the ridiculous syrup selection. You had work the next morning, but you still grabbed your keys and drove two hours with me anyway.”

Your cheeks warm, smiling as the memory plays out in your head.

Joel laughs low and fond, shaking his head. “Oh, I remember,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I also remember you swearin’ you wouldn’t fall asleep on the way there... and then passin’ out ten minutes in.”

You let out a noisy laugh and nudge his arm with your elbow. “Okay, that’s not fair. I stayed awake for at least twenty minutes! And I only fell asleep because your truck was so comfortable and you always played that soft country music. It was basically a sedative.”

Joel laughs too, a real, warm sound that makes your chest feel lighter. “Yeah,” he says, still grinning, “and then you woke up and ordered more pancakes than you could even eat.”

You laugh again, dropping your head. “I was hungry! And I was so sure I could finish them all,” you say, shaking your head at your past self.

The two of you laugh together for a moment, the sound comfortable between you. Then your smile softens. You look down for a second before lifting your eyes back to him.

“And you still let me have the last bite of yours,” you say softly. “Even though you wanted it.”

He watches you for a long moment, his eyes soft and full of that quiet affection you remember so well. The crooked smile on his face turns gentle, almost tender.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something. “I never could say no to you. Couldn’t help it. Seein’ that happy little look on your face was always better than anythin’ I wanted for myself.”

He pauses, his eyes never leaving yours. “Still is.”

You feel your heart squeeze tight in your chest, a warm, aching pull that makes it hard to breathe for a second.

God, why does he still look at you like that? Like you’re still his, like he’s not at your fucking engagement party?

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to let the smile on your face get too soft, too telling, but it’s useless. A quiet breath slips out while your fingers nervously twist at the silk of your dress.

This is so unfair. How can almost five years of silence vanish the second you’re standing next to him? How can he still make you feel this way – like the rest of the world and your damn fiancé and this whole fancy party don’t even exist?

Joel notices the change. Of course he does. His expression changes, softening into understanding as he watches your fingers fidget with your dress. He clears his throat gently and changes the subject, voice casual but kind.

“So... tell me about work,” he says, tilting his head a little. “You mentioned that promotion last time we talked. How’s that goin’? Gotta be some progress in five years,” he laughs kindly.

You smile and latch onto the safer topic like a lifeline. For the next half hour, the rest of the party basically ceases to exist. The conversation flows easily between you, natural and effortless, just like it used to.

You tell him about your promotion, the bigger team you're managing now, and how the new responsibilities have been both exciting and exhausting. You mention the new place you and Alex moved into downtown, how life has somehow gotten... steady. Comfortable. He listens like he always does – really listens – nodding along, asking questions, chuckling at your stories about your nightmare coworker who sends passive-aggressive emails at two in the morning.

He tells you about the latest contracting projects that have been keeping him busy, the old house he finally finished restoring with his own two hands, and how Tommy is still giving him endless shit but is doing okay. You laugh when he describes Tommy showing up unannounced and “helping” with the plumbing, nearly flooding the place.

But slowly, comfortably, the conversation drifts into more familiar territory.

You end up moving over to a seated area tucked against the side of the rooftop – a small couch partially hidden by more plants. You sit side by side, closer than you probably should. The talk turns sweeter. Riskier.

You laugh about the ridiculous fights you used to have that always ended in laughter not even ten minutes later. He teases you about the mornings he’d cook breakfast shirtless just to watch you get distracted. You smile at the memory of how he used to pull you into his chest from behind while you were brushing your teeth, kissing your shoulder and making silly faces at you in the mirror – which always made you laugh so hard you’d end up spitting toothpaste everywhere.

The conversation stays sweet and nostalgic as you both drift through old memories. You laugh about the time he surprised you by learning your favorite song on guitar just so he could play it for you on a random Monday night. He chuckles as he recalls how you used to steal his work T-shirts and wear them around the house, and how he’d pretend to be annoyed but secretly loved seeing you in them.

You reminisce about the night he carried you piggyback your whole way home because your feet hurt from your new shoes, and how he refused to put you down even when you laughed and told him you could walk. Another time you dragged him to a flower market and he let you buy way too many bouquets, then spent the rest of the day helping you arrange them all over his house just because it made you happy.

The stories keep flowing, soft and easy, full of those little everyday moments that made you fall in love with him. You’re both smiling more than you have all night, completely lost in each other as the rest of the party fades into background noise.

At some point, his hand finds your knee. You let it stay there. His thumb tracing slow, lazy circles on the inside of your knee – hidden under the edge of the table, innocent to anyone who might glance over, but enough to make heat bloom low in your belly. You don’t stop him. You didn’t want to.

You were so wrapped up in Joel, you didn’t even see Alex approaching until he was right beside you, his over-the-top cologne hitting you before his presence did.

“There you are, babe,” Alex says, his voice bright but carrying a sharp edge underneath. His eyes dance between you and Joel, noticing how close you’re sitting.

You jolt like you’ve been caught doing something wrong, heart slamming in your chest. You quickly slide out from the table, smoothing your hands down your dress in a flustered rush.

“Sorry,” you say through an awkward laugh, the words tumbling out a little too fast. “Got a little caught up.”

Alex slides his arm around your waist and pulls you in close. His hand drifts lower, settling just above your ass in an almost too possessive way. You catch the way Joel’s jaw tightens, his shoulders going stiff as he stands. His eyes darken for just a second before he schools it back to neutral.

Alex scans Joel for a second then gives your ass a small, quick pat, then looks at you with a smile that doesn’t really reach his eyes.

“You gonna introduce me, babe?”

You startle again, heat rushing up your neck. “Oh—yeah, of course. Alex, this is Joel. He’s... and an old friend.”

Joel extends his hand. “Nice to meet you. Congratulations on the engagement.”

Alex shakes it, his grip a little firmer than his usual. “Thanks,” He pulls his hand back and stuffs it back into the pocket of his pants before he turns his head toward you. “I didn’t  know you had any old friends I hadn’t met yet.”

You pause, unsure of what to say as heat crawls up the back of your neck. The silence drags for half a second too long before Joel saves the day.

“I lived out of state for a while. Just moved back. We lost touch for a bit.”

Not a complete lie.

Alex nods, but his eyes are still suspicious, flicking between the two of you like he’s trying to read something he can’t quite put his finger on. He forces a polite smile anyway. “Well, we should probably get back. Think they’re about to start toasts.” He turns to you. “Come on, babe.”

You give Joel one last look and he just nods, calm and unreadable.

Alex’s arm stays tight around your waist as he steers you away. You follow beside him for a few seconds but you can’t help it – you glance back over your shoulder. Joel is still watching you. You mouth a small “sorry” and a sad smile before Alex pulls you back into the crowd.

And the rest of the night passes in a dreamy, distant blur.

You smiled when you were supposed to, laughed at the right jokes, showed off your ring when asked, and clinked glasses during the long string of toasts. Alex kept you close, his arm tight around your waist like he was anchoring you to him—making sure you didn’t disappear again—as he introduced you to even more friends and colleagues, all of them gushing about how perfect the two of you looked together. You nodded along, said all the right things, and let him kiss your temple for the cameras... but your eyes kept drifting.

Every few minutes, you’d scan the rooftop, hoping for a glimpse of those broad shoulders or that salt and pepper hair. You looked for him by the bar, by the dessert table, along the balcony railing where you’d left him. But he was nowhere to be found. The longer the night dragged, the more your stomach twisted with disappointment.

He left. You realized somewhere between the third toast and the fourth round of photos. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

The thought made your chest ache – a sharp, twisting kind of hurt right behind your ribs that felt a little too much like heartbreak.

What if he doesn’t come to the wedding now? What if tonight was the last time you’d see him and you didn’t even get to say goodbye?

The worry sat like a stone in your stomach, making the lights seem a little harsher, the laughter around you a little too loud, and the whole beautiful night feel completely hollow.

By the time the party started winding down and the last guests were saying their goodbyes, you were exhausted – and not just from the champagne and small talk.

In the back of the town car on the way home, the silence was palpable.

But you barely noticed.

Your mind was still stuck on Joel – replaying every little detail like a film on loop. The way his hair was a little longer now, those silver strands catching the string lights and looking unfairly good. The scruff on his face was a little thicker than you remembered, and there were a couple more lines around his eyes when he smiled. But so many things were exactly the same, the same Texas drawl that flowed through you like butter, the way his eyes still softened when he looked at you—even after all these years—the familiar warmth of his hand on your knee, the way he listened like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

You’d missed that. You’d missed him.

A small, secret smile tugged at your lips as you looked out the window.

“What’s going on with you?”

Alex’s voice cut through your thoughts. You blink and turn to face him. “Huh?”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You’ve been weird all night... Ever since I pulled you away from that guy... Joel, right?” His tone changes, not unkind but firm. “You two clearly have some kind of history.”

Your stomach drops and you feel your cheeks starting to flush again.

Alex lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “God, please tell me you didn’t like... sleep with your college professor or your old boss or something.”

You stare at him, eyes wide with confusion and a bit of hurt. Your mouth actually falls open a little.

He keeps going, gesturing with his hands like he always does. “Was he there to confess his love to you or something?” he asks. “I mean, he definitely looked like he was into you. Was he making you uncomfortable? How’d he even get invited? You should’ve come and found me. I—”

“Alex,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “No. Stop.”

He goes quiet.

You take a breath and try to slow your breathing and heartbeat. “He’s an old friend. That’s it. I didn’t sleep with my boss or my professor or whoever else you're imagining,” you say, a bit of irritation in your voice. “I can’t believe you’d even think I’d do something like that.”

His face drops a little, the frustration melting into something closer to regret.

You keep going, softer now. “I just—we just... hadn’t seen each other in a really long time. We got caught up talking about old memories and I just lost track of time. The nights been long, I got overwhelmed and distracted. And I’m tired,” you say, sighing. “That’s all.”

You hate lying to him. And the guilt twists tight in your chest every second. But how are you supposed to say, “Yeah, Alex, we do have history. He’s my ex – the I thought I was over, the one I told myself I only had friendly love left for... except now... now I don’t know anymore.”

Alex’s jaw clenches, his mouth pressing into a thin line as the frustration on his face slowly melts away, into something guiltier. His eyebrows pull together, and he looks away for a second, like he knows he went too far. He scoots closer on the seat, his hand sliding onto your thigh with a gentle squeeze, his thumb moving back and forth like he’s trying to pull you back to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m overwhelmed too. The wedding planning, the party, all the pressure... I didn’t mean to snap like that.” He pauses, like he’s searching for the words. “I was just making up excuses in my head.”

You stay quiet, watching him carefully.

He lets out a heavy breath and glances at you, then away again, looking almost embarrassed. “I was just... I don’t know, intimidated I guess.” His voice drops. “Dude’s fucking huge, built like a tank or something, and the way he was looking at you... shit, I don’t even know how to explain it.” He trails off, shaking his head.

“Anyway. I’m sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have gone there. That was shitty of me.”

Your heart stutters a little.

You really thought you were making it up in your head – that soft, lingering way Joel looked at you tonight. The way his hand found your leg like he still got to touch you every day. You thought for sure after all this time – but if Alex noticed... it wasn’t just in your head. Joel really had been looking at you like nothings changed.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to sound as casual as possible.

You let out a small laugh and try to sound only mildly interested. “What do you mean?” you ask, letting out another fake little laugh. “How was he... how was he looking at me?”

Alex glances at you, one eyebrow raised like he’s confused about why you care about the way “this guy” was looking at you.

“I don’t know...” he says, dragging out the words. “It was just... it wasn’t normal. Like he was hung up on you or something. Like he had no business looking at my fiancé like that.”

He shakes his head and lets out a short, uncomfortable laugh. “It pissed me off, honestly. Made me feel like I was walking in on something.”

Your cheeks burn hot. Your fingers tighten on the fabric of your dress, and you shift in your seat, suddenly hyper aware of how warm the car feels. Your pulse thuds loudly in your ears.

Alex watches you for a second, but it doesn’t last long. He’s completely oblivious, unaware of the way your knee is bouncing up and down in front of him. Because he just shakes his head and squeezes your thigh.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.” He reaches over, grabs your legs and swings them across his lap, pulling you closer with a playful tug. His hand slides up your calf, thumb moving back and forth as he gives you a crooked, flirty little smirk.

“Come here,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I got all weird about it. I didn’t mean to ruin the night.” He leans in a little, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Let me make it up to you, yeah?”

You know this move.

This is what Alex does. Every single time there’s even a hint of tension or he says something he probably shouldn’t have, he skips the hard part – the talking, the digging deeper – and goes straight for this. A quick, meaningless apology, some sweet words, hands on your skin, and suddenly everything is “fixed”. And usually? You let him. You’re okay with the short, easy version. Quick makeup sex and everything is back to normal.

But tonight... tonight you wish he’d tried a little harder.

You wish he would ask more. Wish he would notice how your heart is still racing, how just saying Joel’s name made your face hot. Wish he would care enough to wonder why one “old friend” managed to pull your attention away at your own engagement party. Because maybe if he did, it’d make you feel a little more guilty for feeling the way you do.

But he doesn’t. His hand is already sliding up your dress, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh like the conversation’s already over.

So you give in.

You smile, soft and practiced, and lean in to kiss him back. Your fingers loop around the back of his neck, you touch him the way he likes, you make all the right little sounds. You try – you really try – to be here, to lose yourself in the way his mouth moves with yours and the way his hands feel on you.

But your mind is somewhere else entirely.

On Joel.

Every time Alex moans against your neck, you hear Joel’s Texas drawl. Every time his hand squeezes your thigh, you feel Joel’s thumb tracing those lazy, slow circles instead. Every kiss, every touch, every breath... it all fades into the memory of that quiet corner on the rooftop and the man who never stopped looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

─────

After the engagement party, everything has been full steam ahead. A whirlwind of final fittings, vendor confirmations, seating chart adjustments, and endless meetings with your planner. Flower arrangements were approved, the final cake tastings were scheduled and rescheduled, the band confirmed their setlist, and you spent an entire grueling afternoon approving the calligraphy on the escort card. Everything moved at full speed, like a train that refused to slow down. Alex was in his element – handling logistics, charming everyone on the phone, and coming home each night with that proud, excited smile that made you feel guilty for not being just as thrilled.

You hadn’t heard a single word from Joel.

Not a text. Not a call. “Not even a polite “thanks for the invite, but I can’t make it anymore.” And you told yourself that was normal. You hadn’t spoken in five years before the party – why would that change just because he hugged you like he never wanted to let go and looked at you like you were still the center of his universe? Just because his thumb traced slow circles on your thigh like muscle memory... it didn’t mean anything. Of course it didn’t. He wasn’t going to show up at your doorstep in the pouring rain and confess his love to you. That only happened in the movies.

Still, every time the mail came, your heart jumped. You half-expected a handwritten note from him saying he couldn’t come after all, maybe with some generic coffeemaker as a wedding gift and a “congratulations” that really felt like a goodbye. Or worse – that he simply wouldn’t show up at all. That he’d decided staying away was kinder, easier.

Either way, silence.

And tomorrow, you were getting married.

You’re lying in bed next to Alex now, the room dark except for the faint glow of the city’s lights through the curtains. He’s been asleep for hours now, breathing even and calm beside you. And you’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past three hours, wide awake, heart heavy.

You love Alex. You do.

He makes you laugh on the hard days. He knows your favorite flower and makes sure to bring you a bouquet of them at least once a week. He’s stable and kind and ambitious in a way that feels comfortable. He’s built a life with you that looks perfect on paper – the beautiful apartment, the future plans, the way he acts like you’re the best decisions he’s ever made. Before Joel showed up at the engagement party, you’d barely thought about him since you last spoke. You had Alex. You were happy.

...Or at least, you thought you were.

Maybe Joel had always been there, tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Maybe he never really left.

But it’s too late now.

If Joel wanted to stop this, he would’ve done it already. He would’ve found you after the party – pulled you aside before you even left with Alex, taken your hand, and told you not to go through with it. That you were making the biggest mistake of your life. But he didn’t. He hasn’t.

So tomorrow you’re getting married.

Even if he did show up... you’d say no, right? You love Alex. You’re choosing the life you built. You have to.

You turn onto your side, staring at the back of Alex’s head, and try to ignore the way your chest feels like it’s cracking open.

─────

The wedding venue is stunning – exactly the kind of place that belongs in the centerfold of a bridal magazine. It’s a sprawling estate with manicured gardens, a grand ballroom filled with crystal chandeliers, and a beautiful outdoor ceremony space overlooking an almost too-perfect landscaped lawn. Everything’s polished, luxurious, and very meticulously planned. Most of it was Alex and the wedding planner’s vision – the towering floral arches, the custom monogrammed linens, a string quartet playing soft classical music as guests arrive.

You would’ve picked something smaller, more intimate, though – maybe a cozy garden with just your closest people, cheap fairy lights, and a simple wooden arch. But this... this is gorgeous. Its perfect on paper. Any bride would be lucky to have a wedding like this.

You shouldn’t be picking it apart like this. This is supposed to be one of the happiest days of your life. Except it’s more of pure chaos wrapped in tulle and fresh flowers.

The bridal suite is buzzing – your maid of honor, Lily, is directing traffic like a general, makeup artists and hairstylists are working on three people at once, and there’s a constant stream of people popping in and out with questions about bouquets, timelines, and whether the groomsmen’s boutonnières match the exact shade of the bridesmaids’ dresses.

The room itself is beautiful—of course—all soft natural light, elegant but blinding white furniture, and massive vases of white roses and eucalyptus that fill the air with a sweet, calming scent. It really does look like it belongs in a magazine. It should feel magical.

But mostly you feel... numb. And guilty for feeling that way.

You barely slept – maybe two hours total – staring at the ceiling while Alex slept peacefully beside you. You’ve been up since before dawn, pacing the kitchen in the dark, making pointless cups of tea you didn’t even drink, and checking your phone every few minutes like you were waiting for a message you knew would never come. Your body feels heavy and wired at the same time, your mind racing in circles, your stomach in knots from the lack of rest.

You told yourself over and over that this is normal. Just wedding jitters. Everyone gets cold feet. It has nothing to do with Joel. Nothing at all.

You haven’t seen Alex since earlier this morning. He came by the suite, kissed your forehead, and gave you the sweetest words – told you how lucky he is, how excited he is to marry you, how he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with you. Then went off to do what he does best: manage, direct, make sure every detail is perfect. Part of you is relieved you haven’t seen him since. You don’t know if you could look him in the eyes right now without your face giving everything away.

You can’t tell him you haven’t stopped thinking about Joel since the engagement party. That you’ve been shamefully, secretly waiting for him to show up and whisk you away. That you can’t walk down the aisle with him because you’ll be wondering if the man you love is somewhere in the crowd watching you marry someone else.

And you’ve been quietly looking for him all morning. Peeking out the window of the bridal suite whenever there weren’t a million hands in your hair just to get a look at the guests coming in. Your heart racing at the sight of any tall, brooding figure in the distance, secretly hoping you’d spot someone who looked like he might be here to stop the love of his life from walking down the aisle. You’ve made up excuse after excuse to go to the bathroom just so you could check the guest sign-in list for his name. Nothing. No Joel.

Now it’s one hour before the ceremony and the last of the guests shuffled in about thirty minutes ago. And still, no Joel. Lily is putting the finishing touches on your makeup, dabbing at your lipstick with a tissue, and your leg hasn’t stopped bouncing under the vanity since you sat down an hour ago.

You’re sure, you tell yourself firmly, if Joel hadn’t shown up at your engagement party, if he had just checked “no” on the RSVP and sent back a polite gift, you’d be absolutely thrilled right now. You’d be bouncing with excitement, not nerves. You’d have no doubt in your mind that you were making the right decision.

 But he had shown up. Looking exactly like the man you fell in love with and nothing like the one you tried so hard to forget – that same quiet intensity in his eyes, the same protective way he carried himself, the same rough, gentle voice that still made your stomach flip. He just had to walk into your engagement party and make you feel things you hadn’t felt in five years.

Your leg bounces faster.

Lily notices, her eyes dropping to your knee then to your reflection in the mirror and shoots you a concerned look.

“Hey... you okay?” she asks softly. “You’ve been really quiet this morning. And your leg is going a mile a minute.”

You force a small laugh, trying to play it off. “Just wedding jitters, I guess. Normal, right?”

Lily sets the brush down and turns your chair so you’re facing her properly. She gives you that best friend look – the one that says she knows you too well to buy the casual act.

“Normal jitters don’t usually make you look like you’re about to throw up,” she says gently, reaching up to gently adjust the veil and smooth a few strands of hair. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You hesitate, biting your lip. The words feel dangerous to say out loud, but Lily’s been your person for years. You trust her.

“I just...” You hesitate, shaking your head. “I can’t stop thinking about Joel,” you admit finally, voice barely above a whisper. “He showed up at the engagement party and it’s like everything came rushing back. I thought I was over him. I was over him. But now...” you sigh. “I just can’t stop wondering if I’m making the wrong choice here. If maybe Joel was always supposed to be the one.”

Lily takes your hands in hers and squeezes them, her expression soft but firm.

“Oh honey,” she says, sighing a little. “Seeing an ex after that long is always going to mess with your head. It’s normal. You two had a lot of history.”

You shake your head again, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know... but it feels like more than that.”

Lily nods and squeezes your hands again, her thumbs moving in gentle circles. “I get it. It’s stirring up old feelings. Those memories can hit hard, especially on a day like today. But that doesn’t mean Alex isn’t the right one now.”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably as you open your mouth to speak. “I know, but what if—”

She cuts you off gently, but firmly, eyebrows furrowed. “You love him, right? Alex?”

You nod, almost too quickly. “Yeah. I do.”

She tilts her head, studying you for a second. “And he makes you happy?”

You nod again, your shoulders dropping a little as you let out a small breath, your fingers flexing just a little in hers. “Yes.”

She smiles softly, still holding your hands as she exhales a relieving breath. “Then that’s what matters. Don’t let one blast from the past mess with your head on your wedding day, okay? Joel is an ex for a reason. You’ve got a good man waiting for you out there.”

She’s right. You know she is. No matter what your heart is feeling. The timing back then was never on your side, and no matter how much seeing Joel stirred everything up, it doesn’t erase the life you’ve built with Alex. You love him. You chose him. This is the future you’re supposed to have now. You can’t let one night of nostalgia and old feelings derail everything. He is your ex for a reason. Alex is out there waiting for you and today is about starting your life with him.

You nod slowly, letting out a long breath as the knot in your chest loosens just a little. Your shoulders drop and you manage a small, genuine smile. “You’re right. Thanks, Lily. I needed to hear that.”

She smiles and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You’ve got this. You’re going to walk down that aisle and marry the man you chose. And it’s gonna be amazing. Okay?”

You nod again. “Yeah. I’ve got this.”

You both lean in for a hug, and Lily wraps her arms around you, her chin resting on your shoulder for a second as she holds you close. You squeeze her back just as hard, the familiar scent of her vanilla perfume and the softness of her dress bringing you back down to reality for a second.

She pulls back and turns you back to the vanity, making a few final touches — gently adjusting the veil so it falls perfectly against your hair, dabbing at your lips one last time and smoothing another hair back. She steps back and tilts her head as she looks at your reflection in the mirror with a proud, teary-eyed smile.

“You look stunning,” she says, smiling. “Really, you’re glowing.”

You stand, smooth your dress back down, and turn towards her. “Thank you. For everything.”

She reaches out and rubs the back of your arm gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Perfect.”

She gives you one last warm look, her hand lingering on your arm for a second. “I’ll give you a few minutes before we head out. Take a breath. I won’t be far if you need me.”

She slips out the door and closes it quietly behind her, leaving you alone in silence except for the faint hum of activity outside — muffled voices, the distant sound of the string quartet warming up, the soft sounds of people moving around outside the door.

You stand there in front of the tall mirror, running your palms down the front of your dress. And you’re in awe. It’s gorgeous — strapless, fitted corset body covered in delicate white lace and pretty floral patterns that hug your waist so perfectly. And the skirt — it’s huge but not too huge— it’s full of soft layers and tulle with cascading ruffles that swish and move every time you turn.

You slowly spin from side to side, watching how the fabric and little beads catch and sparkle in the morning light. This really is your dream dress. It’s one of the few things you actually cared was perfect. You’d dreamed about this dress since you were little, dancing around in your mom’s heels and cheap red lipstick, playing princess, just praying one day you’d get to marry your prince charming.

And you are, you have to remind yourself.

You’ve got this.

The words loop over and over in your head like a quiet mantra. This is your day. You love Alex. He’s good and kind and he makes you feel safe. He remembers the little things. He’s building a life with you that feels real. You chose him. This is the right choice. It has to be.

You smooth your hands over the ruffled skirt again, the cool fabric soothing your nerves just a little. You tilt your head, studying your reflection – the soft waves in your hair, the veil cascading down your back, the way your makeup makes your eyes look brighter. You look like a bride. You look like the bride.

Joel is your past, you remind yourself firmly. He showed up, he stirred everything up, but he didn’t stop you. He didn’t fight for you. The Joel you knew five years ago would’ve. And that means something. Because no matter what you feel for Joel, it’s obviously not mutual. And that’s okay, you tell yourself. Because you have Alex, and he’s out there waiting for you, and today is about your future with him. Not old memories. Not what-ifs. Just this.

You let out one more slow breath, rolling your shoulder back and lifting your chin a little. The nerves are still there, buzzing under your skin, but you push them down as best you can. You turn away from the mirror, the train of your dress whispering across the floor as you take a few steps, practicing the way you’ll walk down the aisle.

Before you even realize it, you’re pacing

Your fingers twist anxiously at the engagement ring on your left hand, spinning the diamond around and around your finger. The stone reflecting the light with every nervous rotation, bright and heavy and impossible to ignore. You don’t know how long you’ve been moving back and forth in here – three minutes? Five? – but the realization hits you suddenly. You cant hide in here forever. People will start wondering. Lily will come looking. Alex might even come himself.

You need to go.

You step back in front of the mirror one last time and gather the voluminous skirt in both your hands, lifting it a few inches before letting it drop again. You do it once, twice, three times, watching the layers of tulle and lace settle beautifully around your legs. It looks perfect. Everything looks so fucking perfect.

A soft knock echoes through the room.

Your head lifts. Lily, you think immediately. Probably here to tell you it’s time to go.

“Coming!” you call out, trying to force all the nerves out of your throat.

You turn back to the mirror and lean in a little closer, quickly smoothing your fingertips over the top of your hair to settle any last flyaways, patting under your eyes with your ring finger to refresh the makeup under your eyes. You tilt your head, checking every angle.

“You’ve got this,” you mumble under your breath, the words barely audible. “You’ve got this.”

Another knock, firmer this time.

You roll your eyes with a huff, already turning the door as you speak. “Geez, Lily, I was just—”

You pull the door open mid-sentence, and the rest of the words die in your throat.

And suddenly, your lungs forget how to work. The skirt of your wedding dress suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and the lace corset feels like it’s suffocating you. Joel’s stood in the doorway like he stepped straight out of every half-remembered dream you’ve had for the last few years. Charcoal suit stretched across those broad shoulders, white shirt open at the collar like he couldn’t stand the formality of it all, salt-and-pepper hair slicked at the side but just messy enough to look like he’d been dragging his hands through it all day.

And his eyes – those big, brown eyes are wide and shattered as they rake over you. The veil. The dress. The diamond on your finger that isn’t is.

He looks like a man who just lost everything and still can’t stop staring.

And all either of you can do is stare at each other, no words, no movements, just wide eyes and parted lips.

You’re about to speak, force something—anything out—but he beats you to it.

“...Darlin’.”

You grip the door so hard your knuckles ache. “Joel... what are you—”

He steps inside without waiting for permission, closing the door behind him with a soft click, never taking his eyes off you. The scent of him — cedar, soap, and a faint trace of cologne — floods the space between you and feels like a punch to the gut.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, voice thick as ever. His gaze drags over every inch of you like he’s memorizing a goodbye. “Look at you…”

Your throat closes and tears prickle hot behind your eyes, threatening the perfect makeup Lily spent an hour perfecting. “You shouldn’t be here, Joel.”

“I know.” He takes one small step closer, then another, like he’s scared you might bolt. “Told myself that the whole damn drive here. Told myself it a hundred times since that party.” His hand lifts like he wants to touch you, then drops. “But I can’t let you do this. Not without you knowin’.”

You shake your head, letting your eyes flutter closed. “Knowing what, Joel?” Your voice cracks as your fingers twist at the engagement ring that suddenly feels like it’s cutting off circulation.

“That I still love you,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Never stopped. Not for one goddamn day.”

Tears start to blur your vision again and your face flushes with a rush of heat that spreads down your neck and all over your body. You look down, unable to look at him any longer, and give a small, helpless shake of your head. “Joel...” you whisper.

Joel takes another step forward as his jaw works, eyes shining and glossy. “I tried to move on. God knows I did. Dated women my own age, kept my head down, threw myself into work until I was too tired to think... but it didn’t matter. You were always there, in the back of my mind.” He swallows hard. “I was scared. Scared I was holdin’ you back, scared I was too broken, too old, too stuck in my ways. Thought I was doin’ right by lettin’ you go.”

A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t bother wiping it away.

“But watchin’ you at that party with him...” His voice drops, thick with pain. “Seein’ you in that green dress, laughin’ the way you used to laugh with me... it damn near killed me. And knowin’ today was comin’? I couldn’t stay away. Couldn’t let you walk down that aisle without hearin’ it from me.”

He’s close now. Close enough that you can see the faint tremble in his hands, the way his chest is rising and falling way too fast. You should tell him to leave. You should scream for Lily. You should do a lot of things.

Instead, you whisper, “Joel... I’m getting married.”

“I know.” His hand finally rises slowly, brushing a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. His touch is so gentle it hurts. “And if you look me in the eye right now and tell me you love him more than you ever loved me — that this is what you want — I’ll walk out that door. Won’t even stay for the rest of the weddin’. I’ll let you go for good this time.”

His other hand comes up to cradle your face, thumbs stroking along your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“But if even a small part of you still feels what I feel...” He steps even closer, big brown eyes locked on yours. “Don’t do it, baby. Don’t marry him.”

A soft sob breaks out of you before you can stop it.

Joel cradles your face with so much tenderness, it sends more tears falling. “Hey... hey, darlin’, it’s okay.” He whispers, his voice so soft and soothing. “I’ve got you. Just breathe. I’m right here.” His thumbs wipe away the tears that won’t seem to stop pouring down your cheeks.

Your heart aches with a devastating mix of relief and crushing guilt all at once. This is exactly what you’d been secretly hoping for — deep down, you wanted Joel to show up here. To stop you, to say everything you’ve been too terrified to admit yourself. But Alex... sweet, loving Alex doesn’t deserve this. He’s a good guy who’s never hurt you. And yet your heart keeps screaming the truth you can’t ignore anymore. It’s Joel. It’s always been Joel.

He pulls back just enough to search your puffy, wet eyes with his own — wide and scared, like he’s terrified you’ll push him away. Your faces are so close now, lips only inches apart, your shaky breaths mingling with each other’s and your soft sniffles filling the quiet air.

He leans in first, pausing for a heartbeat right in front of your lips, giving you a chance to pull away—but you don’t. Can’t.

So he closes the distance, his soft lips touching yours for the first time in years making you gasp into his mouth, the familiar feeling hitting you like a wave.

It’s not gentle or careful; it’s five years of silence and longing and regret crashing together. He kisses you like a man drowning, one hand sliding into your pinned hair, the other gripping your waist like he’ll never let go again. You taste salt —your tears, maybe his — and the faint bite of alcohol. Your fingers fist into the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer, closer, like you can merge the mix of years apart into nothing.

He groans into your mouth when your lips part for him, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that makes you weak at the knees. The veil shifts, the heavy skirt tangling around your legs as he backs you against the vanity. Something clatters to the floor. Neither of you cares.

He pulls back a little, gasping, lips swollen and eyes wild.

“Tell me to leave,” he rasps into your mouth. “Say the words. Tell me you don’t want this.”

You can’t. You cant say it.

Instead, you pull him back in, kissing him slower this time, pouring everything you can into it — the lonely nights, the what-if’s, the way Alex’s love always felt like a beautiful room with no windows while Joel’s felt like the entire fucking sky.

A sharp knock makes the both of you freeze.

“Five minutes!” Lily calls through the door, bright and completely oblivious. “You ready?”

Your heart hammers against your ribs. Joel doesn’t pull away. His eyes stay on you, searching your face like he’s scared of what you’ll say next.

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“...Stay.”

Joel’s eyes flutter closed for a second, relief washing over his face like a dam breaking. When they open again, they’re blazing.

“Yeah?”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Yeah. I... I can’t do it. I can’t marry him.”

The words feel like both salvation and sin the moment they leave your lips.

Joel lets out a shaky exhale and nods a few times. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, darlin’. We’ll figure it out. But right now, you gotta tell me what you need. You want me to walk out there with you? You want me to wait here? You want me to get you the hell outta here?” His eyes dance across your face. “Just tell me what you need, baby.”

Your mind is spinning and your heart is racing. The string quartet is playing louder outside. You can hear the low murmur of guests, the occasional burst of laughter. In five minutes — maybe less — Lily is going to walk through that door and expect a glowing bride.

A new wave of panic hits you.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice trembling. “I don’t know what to do. Everyone’s out there. Alex is out there...”

Joel’s hands slide down to hold yours, thumbs stroking over your knuckles, bringing you back down to earth for a second. “You don’t gotta decide everythin’ right this second,” he says gently but urgently. “But you do gotta decide one thing right now: do you wanna walk down that aisle, or do you wanna leave?”

You stare at him — at the man you never really got over — and the answer feels like it’s been carved in your bones for years.

“I want to leave,” you whisper. “With you.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He nods once, jaw set. “Then we’re leavin’. Right now.”

He glances back at the door, then back at you. “You got shoes you can move in? That dress is gonna be a problem, but we’ll make it work.”

You shake your head, half-laughing, half-crying. “I can’t exactly run in this.”

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” he says, completely serious. The corner of his mouth twitches — that familiar crooked smile breaking through the tension. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

There’s another knock on the door — louder this time.

“Two minutes!” Lily calls. “I’m coming in!”

The doorknob rattles.

“Shit,” Joel curses, but the corner of his mouth twitches — that old, familiar half-smile breaking through. “Let’s get outta here.”

He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the far side of the suite, where a set of tall glass doors open onto a small private terrace overlooking the gardens. You bunch up the ridiculous mountain of tulle and lace, half-running, half-tripping after him. The dress fights with you every step, catching on furniture and nearly sending you stumbling.

“This thing is a damn hazard,” Joel grumbles, but there’s a breathless laugh in his voice as he pushes the doors open.

The warm sunlight hits you both the second you step outside. Your heart is pounding — part terror, part absolute joy. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach; Alex waiting at the altar, all the guests, the life you’re blowing up, but being with Joel, choosing Joel, feels like the first real breath you’ve taken in years.

Joel glances back at you, wrestling with the skirt and shakes his head, grinning despite everything. “C’mere.”

He scoops you up without warning, like you weight nothing, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. And you let out a surprised laugh that turns into a half-sob as you wrap your arms around his neck.

“You’re gonna break your back,” you laugh, even as you hold on tighter.

“Worth it,” he whispers. He carries you down the stone steps and cuts through the garden, staying behind the tall hedges. The veil keeps whipping across his face and your skirt keeps snagging on branches. Every time it does, Joel curses under his breath and adjusts his grip, muttering, “Goddamn wedding dress weighs more than me, I swear...”

You stifle a watery giggle against his shoulder.

The distant sound of the quarter and murmuring guests floats across the lawn, making your chest tighten with guilt again.

“Joel...” you whisper, voice cracking.

“I know.” His hold on you tightens. “I know it’s messy. But you’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He ducks behind a tall stone near the edge of the property, finally setting you down gently on your feet but keeping one hand on your waist. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb wiping away fresh tears.

“You sure about this?” he asks, searching your puffy eyes, giving you one last out, even now. “We can still turn back. I’ll walk you back if that’s what you really want.”

Part of you knows you should. Alex is waiting. Everyone is waiting. You’re about to shatter a good man’s heart and blow up both of your lives... but the thought of walking away from Joel again feels impossible. You can’t go back. Not now.

You shake your head, fresh tears falling, fingers curling into his suit jacket. “I don’t wanna go back.”

His face softens with what looks like relief — the hard lines around his eyes soften and his brows pull apart and that crooked smile trembles a little, equal parts relief and disbelief. His whole face lights up.

He leans down and kisses you again — quick but full of joy instead of desperation. When he pulls back, his hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb stroking along your hairline as he holds you close.

“Good,” he murmurs. “’Cause I’m not lettin’ you go again.”

He glances behind you at the massive white dress billowing around you and lets out a short, breathless laugh. “That thing’s gonna get us caught,” he mutters, but there’s no real worry in his voice, just wild, reckless energy.

He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers tightly together, and the two of you take off — half-jogging, half-sneaking the rest of the way toward the road. Your skirt keeps catching on the grass and ballooning out dramatically with every step, but you don’t care. You're both giggling like idiots every time it happens, Joel muttering curses under his breath as he tugs you along faster.

By the time you reach his truck, you’re both a little flushed and winded. Joel opens the passenger door with a dramatic flourish.

“Your getaway car, darlin’.”

You climb in, laughing through tears as you try to stuff the endless layers of tulle inside. He shuts the door, rounds the truck, and slides behind the wheel. The engine rumbles to life — that familiar, comforting sound.

He looks over at you, one hand reaching for yours, thumb stroking over your knuckles. The smile on his face is soft, but his eyes are serious.

“You ready?” he asks quietly, giving you one final chance to change your mind.

You squeeze his hand, the messy storm of guilt, relief, and terrifying joy still turning inside your chest.

“No,” you whisper through a shaky laugh. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

The corner of Joel’s mouth lifts as he brings your hand to his lips and pulls away from the venue. The estate disappears behind you as the truck rolls down the winding road, windows down, your veil still fluttering in the wind like a messy white flag.

It’s messy. It’s gonna hurt like hell tomorrow.