agatha

A headache starts to bloom as you finally stop in front of a hotel on your way home, after a fifteen-minute walk. A doorman in full uniform is greeting guests at the end of a red carpet rolled out between the curb and the gilded doors, and every inch of it screams money. Formal wear. Ten thousand forks for ten thousand-course wine-paired dinners.

You glance down at your formal dress and running shoes.

You almost turn around. You had to switch into sneakers for the walk home after work to clear your head, and your heels are tucked inside your bag, but the mere thought of being turned away for your outfit pisses you off even more.

Still, rules are rules. That’s your job, after all.

Tonight, you admit that a drink is absolutely worth the risk and you sure as hell won’t find one at home, where the only alcohol in your fridge is a half-finished bottle of wine that’s probably turned to vinegar by now.

So you take a deep breath, walk up to the doorman, and use that soft, composed voice you save for very specific moments.

“Good evening. I’m not a guest, but I’m here for the bar.”

The doorman gives you a once-over so quick it’s like it never happened. Before he can bring up the dress code, you pull your bag open so he can see your heels. And your makeup pouches. And the empty glass containers that once held your lunch.

“I’ll put the heels on. I swear. I was just walking home from work.”

“Good evening,” he says politely, with an accent you know isn’t from Texas. “Please feel free to use one of the couches in the lobby to put your shoes on before heading to the bar.”

Message received.

Like the law-abiding citizen you are, you follow the rules and switch out your sneakers for your heels before heading down the hotel’s main corridor to the bar. The decor is dark, rich, and moody, and the red carpet is soft beneath your steps as you walk toward the bar counter. The chandeliers, cascading with colored crystals, cast warm amber shadows across the wood ceiling, carved and curved with elaborate detail.

You settle onto a barstool, velvet-cushioned and high-backed, and bury your face in your hands for a moment, breathing in the scent of cedar and the swirl of colognes with notes of wood and tobacco flower.

Today was your mentor’s farewell party at the firm. She got an offer from a major New York firm that she couldn’t turn down, and the non-negotiable requirement was that she start tomorrow. She’s probably already at the airport by now.

As soon as she gave notice, you were promoted to fill the role she left behind, but only so you could inherit all of her massive, complex cases.

Today was goodbye. And tomorrow…

Tomorrow is the first hearing in the class action brought by twenty workers, now represented by you, against one of the country’s biggest construction companies. Tomorrow, you’ll argue for class certification before the judge and the construction company’s attorney, whose name you haven’t bothered to look up. You don’t need to know who it is.

“Judging by that look, I’m gonna suggest a straight whiskey. Neat.”

You glance up at the bartender, who’s offering a sympathetic smile.

“I am in crisis, but not that deep. A Gold Rush, please.”

He nods and steps away to make your drink, and you take a moment to look around.

There are couples whispering to each other, women and men who look way too guilty to actually be couples and are probably taking advantage of the place’s privacy to negotiate their affairs. Or maybe you’re just pathologically judgmental. There are men in suits drinking bottled beer alone, and a group of girlfriends gathered around a glittery, heavily made-up woman wearing a satin sash across her chest that reads “sweet 21.” Probably a bar crawl. This place doesn’t usually attract the young and joyful.

Your Gold Rush lands in front of you and you thank him. The opening bars of “That Don’t Impress Me Much” start playing softly over the speakers, casting just enough of a mood to make you forget, for a minute, why you came here in the first place.

When you pick up your phone, the work group chat is flooded with messages, mostly pictures from earlier tonight, and suddenly not even the magical composition of Shania Twain is strong enough to act as an antidote to the bitter sensation spreading in your stomach. There’s a cake in the photos, cheap champagne and going-away gifts for your mentor. Your smile looks perfectly convincing. No one would ever guess you’re terrified.

Someone sits down two stools to your left, and you glance over out of pure curiosity.

It’s a man in a crisp white shirt, sleeves buttoned just right, tailored slacks, and shoes that shine too much for him to be some intern at an accounting firm nearby. He raises a finger to the bartender, and you catch a glimpse of his salt-and-pepper hair and beard before turning your attention back to your drink. Definitely not an intern.

You text a few of your friends, humming softly along with whatever’s playing from the strategically hidden speakers around the bar. The bartender shares a few pieces of gossip and hotel stories, and you’re entertained, especially by the one about the top-floor suite being haunted.

You ask for a second Gold Rush, but when the glass is placed in front of you, it’s just whiskey. A sad, warm, flat pour of whiskey.

The bartender walks away too fast to notice your attempt to call him back, already serving a new guest who just sat down at the far end of the bar.

“Shit,” you mutter, staring at the amber liquid staring back at you. Maybe this is a sign you’re meant to move on to neat whiskey.

“I think our drinks got switched.”

The voice comes from your left. The man in the white shirt is holding up a Gold Rush, fingers wrapped easily around the glass.

His voice is steady and deep, and his face catches you off guard. He’s handsome in a way that’s just… male. Strong jaw lined with a full beard, lips tinged slightly red from the whiskey.

“Oh,” you say, eloquently. “Yeah. Right. Here.”

You reach out and offer him your glass, and the two of you switch drinks. As you sit back on your stool, you feel his eyes stay on you.

“You looked a little disappointed not to get the whiskey.”

“I thought it was a divine sign I should start drinking it neat.”

“And why would God weigh in on your drink order?”

You rub the side of your face, smiling.

“Because he knows I need it.”

He lets out a low whistle.

“Tough shit, huh?”

You nod, then take another long sip of your Gold Rush. It’s not as good as the first one… more watered down, less honey, more whiskey. Not exactly the ideal mix.

“What about you?” you ask, loud enough for him to know the question’s for him, though you keep your eyes on your glass. “Do you drink it neat because you like it or because you have to? Doesn’t make sense to me, someone choosing to drink whiskey like that.”

“I’ve outgrown drinking to forget. I just like the taste.”

“Okay.”

A low chuckle.

“What was that ‘okay’? You don’t believe me?”

“Hard to believe anyone’s ever too old to drink to get something off their mind.”

“All right. Let’s make a deal. You,” he lifts the glass and points a finger toward you, “tell me what you’re trying to forget, and I’ll tell you mine.”

“Why?”

“Because if you had anything better to do, you wouldn’t be here drinking alone.”

“Maybe I just want to drink in peace without being bothered.”

“I’m too old to be scared off by that kind of line, too. If you really didn’t want to talk to me, you wouldn’t have kept going.”

“Well, look at that. A behavioral analyst?”

Another lopsided smile that’s, unfortunately, way too attractive.

“Close enough.”

The group of girls gets up from their table, heading for the exit while singing in unison, “I’m 21 now, everybody wanna be my guy.” A few people turn to watch, but the man beside you doesn’t take his eyes off you.

You sigh.

“I got promoted. My mentor moved out of town and left me in charge of a load of terrifyingly complex cases that used to be hers.”

“Unless your boss is dumb as a box of rocks, they wouldn’t have promoted you if you didn’t have the chops.”

“I know I’m good,” you say, because it’s true. “Thanks, but I’m not in need of a pep talk about my potential. Your turn.”

He presses his palm flat on the oak bar in front of you both.

“Got divorced eight months ago and still dealing with the headache of splitting assets.”

“Someone trying to screw the other over?”

“No.”

That’s all he says, and that’s where he leaves it. And since you know your limits (at least most of the time) you raise your glass.

“Let’s drink to that.”

The drink has gone lukewarm from sitting too long, and this bar isn’t exactly cold, but the last thing your brain registers is the faint aftertaste of light oak lingering on your tongue, because the man in front of you holds your gaze as he takes another sip of his dull whiskey.

The bartender looks a little impatient when you finally realize he said something. You turn toward him, lowering your glass.

“Sorry. What?”

“Would you two like a table? One just opened up.”

He’s referring to the table where the group of brightly dressed girls had been just minutes ago. It’s clean now, the polished mahogany shining under the bar lights, and then—

“Oh, we’re not—”

“I…” the man next to you says, already standing. His trousers are slightly wrinkled at the thighs, and for some reason, you notice. “Would like a table, because there’s only so long my back can take sitting on one of these stools.”

He walks past you, still holding his glass, and says low enough for only you to hear:

“You’re welcome to join me if you feel like it.”

He smells good: clean, expensive cologne, aftershave with a hint of patchouli, and the scent stays with you even after he’s far enough away. The bartender wipes down the spot where the boring whiskey glass had been and says:

“I can bring your next round to the table.”

You respond with a small, polite smile, and slide off the stool.

In your day-to-day, you deal with nerve-wracking situations, but apparently your nervous system can’t tell the difference between arguing a case against a major corporation and walking over to a good-looking man, because your hands get clammy and your heart beats a little faster with each step.

The table he’s sitting at is a booth in the corner of the bar, one side framed by a half-moon sofa and the other by a wide, comfortable chair. He’s in the chair, on the phone.

When you slide into the booth across from him and set your bag down, he meets your gaze, and there’s something just slightly predatory in the way a small smile curves his lips.

“I’ve gotten ten reports about tomorrow already,” he says into the phone, thumb resting against the edge of his whiskey glass. His voice doesn’t match the smile. It’s colder. “I don’t need another one or more details. I’m the one who wrote the motion to dismiss.”

The bartender brings another Gold Rush. You ask for water. The man lowers the phone and asks the bartender for something else before returning to the call.

“I thought it’d be the other attorney. No, I don’t know the new one,” he pauses. “Don’t bother looking up her name. What the hell difference would that make?”

He ends the call with a promise to talk again after whatever he’s doing at ten in the morning. The phone disappears into his pocket, and he leans back, lifting his eyebrows at you.

“So you decided to join me.”

“A gift.”

The smile widens.

“Not gonna argue with that.”

Another sip, another glance exchanged.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask. He nods once. “I’m curious, and I have very little shame about it. I want to know why you got divorced.”

“You’re expecting something scandalous or sexy, but I’m gonna let you down. It’s plain vanilla. Bland as a Big Mac, really.”

You laugh.

“That’s fine. It’ll still satisfy my curiosity.”

“Quick version? Work.” Ah yes, the plot of every midlife divorce movie ever made. “Long version involves listing every way we were socially, sexually, and emotionally incompatible, and my job was just the trigger that made us stop lying to each other.”

“For twenty years?”

“Twenty-two,” he corrects. “Yeah. Luckily, I’m not the brooding type and I don’t dwell on much, or I’d be stuck agonizing over spending nearly half my life with someone I didn’t love. And who didn’t love me.”

“Can I say I’m sorry?”

“Please don’t. I’m not sorry, so no reason you should be.”

“Maybe I’m just a helpless romantic with a shattered heart over the idea of a couple splitting up.”

The bartender reappears, placing a small charcuterie board on the table with cheeses, olives, cured meats, and in one corner, a few syrupy cherries. He hands you your water and walks away.

“You don’t strike me as a helpless romantic,” He says, gesturing toward the food. “Help yourself.”

He takes a bite of blue cheese and sips the whiskey.

“And you don’t look like a divorced man in crisis at a hotel bar,” you reply, which makes him smile, unfazed. “What do I look like?” you ask.

He doesn’t even have to think.

“Someone who’d sneak out in the middle of the night and leave a fake number on a napkin.”

“So… a player.”

A loud laugh bursts from one of the women at the next table. He watches you in silence, the golden light outlining the shape of his shoulders, the expensive leather watch on his wrist, and you think: I want to see him naked.

“Not a bad thing,” he says. “But to be fair, that’s just a guess. I don’t usually do this.” He explains, “Casual stuff. One-night stands.”

“Are you a romantic?”

“No, but I’m a fan of intimacy. I like knowing how to touch, what to touch, what to say. Waking up, breathing in someone’s skin, wanting more.”

His deep voice vibrates across every nerve in your body like a low-voltage current that leaves only a soft numbness at your fingertips.

“Let me know if I’m crossing a line,” you say.

“I wouldn’t let you cross one,” he replies calmly, full of quiet confidence.

You ignore him. “Have you had a casual thing since the divorce?”

“Just one.”

“And was it good? Because casual relationships usually have zero intimacy.”

“I didn’t expect it to be good. And I don’t expect you to understand or think it’s moral, but when you’ve been with the same person for that long, touching someone else, even post-divorce, feels wrong.”

“And that’s exactly what made it better,” you guess, because humans are painfully predictable like that, even if morality forces them to hide the pattern.

“Bingo.”

“Planning to go for a second round?”

“You mean with casual stuff in general, or with that same person?” he asks, and you shrug. He turns the question over like it’s another sip of aged whiskey and watches as you pick up a cherry and place it between your lips. Finally, he says, “Haven’t had the chance. Either one.”

It’s just the whiskey. That’s the only reason you feel the urge to say until now so intensely that you have to bite your bottom lip to stop yourself.

“And your relationships?” he asks. You don’t answer, so he rephrases: “Your casual ones?”

You reply, “I don’t know your name.”

He leans in slightly.

“Joel.”

You tell him yours and reach out to shake his hand. Joel wraps his larger, soft hand around yours, his thumb resting gently across your knuckles. The gesture was supposed to be playful, a faux handshake, but Joel leans in.

Before he lowers his head completely, though, he turns just enough to look into your eyes. Then he presses a kiss to the top of your fingers.

“A pleasure,” he murmurs. He strokes your hand one last time before laying it gently on the table and sitting upright.

“If you keep this up,” you say, pulling your hand back into your lap, sure he can somehow see how your skin’s tingling even though that’s impossible, “you’ll have a whole collection of casual flings soon enough.”

“Did it work on you?” he asks, so polite, so well-mannered, that even the flirting sounds like something out of a velvet-bound British novel, if not for that slow Texas drawl that turns every sentence ending into something obscene. “Or are you not a fan of casual relationships?”

“It’s the only kind I’ve ever known.”

“What are you, twenty-four?”

“Twenty-six.”

Joel nods slowly, doing the math as he finishes off the last of his whiskey. Then he pulls his wallet from his pocket and flips through a few cards, and you catch a glimpse of an American Express Black before he slides something toward you.

You lean forward to get a better look under the dim light.

Two items. One is a gold State Bar of Texas license card, just like the one in your own wallet, with the name Joel Miller and an issue date of August 1997. Of course. A lawyer. The other is his driver’s license, photo and all, same name, and date of birth. A few seconds of math tell you Joel is fifty-five.

“If I said I’m staying on the top floor and would love for you to come up with me, what would you say?” he asks as you’re still scanning his personal information.

Makes sense now why he showed it to you.

It’s pure luck your hand is still in your lap, because the tremble might’ve given you away. You take a slow sip of water, calm and measured, and steady your breath before answering:

“Make the request properly, and I’ll give you an answer.”

Joel checks his watch, then his empty glass, and as he asks the bartender for the check, he says:

“I’m staying here and heading up to my room. I’d like you to come with me, because I’ve thought about you in my bed an unhealthy number of times in the last few minutes.”

“That’s not a request.”

“Shame. I’m not much of a man who asks.”

The bartender brings the check inside a leather folio embossed with the hotel’s logo, handing it to Joel. Before anything else, though, you place your hand on top of Joel’s documents, still neatly aligned on the mahogany table, and ask the bartender:

“Do you know him?” You gesture toward Joel.

The bartender looks between the two of you. If he finds the situation odd, which would be entirely reasonable, he doesn’t show it.

“Yes, of course. Mr. Miller is a very frequent guest of ours,” he answers politely. You keep your eyes on the bartender, but you can feel Joel watching you, the heat of it brushing against your profile. “A point of pride for the state of Texas, protecting the companies that drive our economy.”

Patriotism in Texas is nothing new, and you’re used to it by now, but the word “pride” still makes you frown. Your train of thought is interrupted when Joel asks the bartender:

“Her Gold Rushes are on here too?” The bartender says yes. Joel murmurs, “Good,” grabs the pen and signs his name on the dotted line. You only catch the M of his last name before the folio is closed. “Thank you.” Then, to you, he says, “Let’s go.”

There’s still plenty of room for you to say no, to back out, to clarify that you were just flirting and your final stop is here, not his hotel room. Joel would accept that and call it a night. But that’s not what you want, which is why you grab your purse, his documents, and rise from your seat along with him.

The elevator ride up to Joel’s hotel room is quiet, and he watches with a half-amused expression as you photograph his ID, hand everything back, then send his information and your location to your best friend. There’s no one else with you, and no one in the hallway to see Joel unlock the room with a keycard and step aside to let you in first.

The soft click behind you signals the door closing, but your eyes are on the freshly made bed and the suitcase in the corner of the room. A MacBook sits in the middle of the white sheets, and there’s a stack of papers on the nightstand. The hotel closet holds three suits on hangers and two pairs of polished shoes.

You’re so nervous you can feel it deep in your stomach, cold and sharp like anxiety always is. It’s reckless, being here with a stranger, but you cling to the shared location and the photos of his ID like a life raft, because you want this so badly.

Let’s just hope you don’t end up on the news tomorrow as the gullible attorney who walked into a psychopath’s trap.

Without even turning around, you know Joel’s behind you.

“I need to ask you something, and I don’t want it to be weird,” you say, facing him.

“Okay.”

“I want to shower first.”

“Damn,” he says, amused. “Here I was bracing for you to say you were into bloodplay.”

“That comes after the shower. I like my fangs nice and clean.”

Joel’s smile is easy, and despite the strangeness of the situation, an unavoidable side effect of any casual encounter, his expression makes the room feel a little less tense. He guides you to the suite, tells you to take all the time you need, and leaves you alone.

From there, everything’s mechanical. Heels off. Then the dress, folded carefully over the marble counter so it won’t wrinkle. Then your underwear. You tie your hair up, turn on the hot water, and step under the strong spray. You only wore a bit of makeup this morning, just a couple dabs of concealer, so you’re free to let the water hit your face, and that feels like a relief.

The heat loosens the tension in your shoulders, and the bathroom quickly fills with steam. Your worries about tomorrow sink down into the back of your mind, into that mental drawer where you keep your mom’s chocolate cake recipe, the names of Game of Thrones characters, and Kant’s theory on ethics and morality. Things that matter, just not right now.

There’s a bottle of body wash that seems way too fancy to be hotel-issued, but you pump some into your palm and work it across your skin. Patchouli.

The door opens again. Joel’s voice comes through the steam:

“Mind if I grab my toothbrush?”

The shower glass is fully fogged over. Still, it matters that he asks, even after you followed him up here fully intending to sleep with him.

“Go ahead and brush your teeth.”

The door opens all the way and closes again. Over the rush of water, you hear him moving at the sink, running the faucet, brushing.

“I’m not usually this weird,” you say, feeling the need to explain. “I swear if this were any other day, I would’ve kissed you the moment we walked into the room. But I came straight from work and didn’t want to torture you with the scent of a ten-hour shift.”

“I didn’t notice anything wrong with the way you smelled, but I get it. After twenty-five, we’ve all got our little rituals,” he says, mouth slightly full of foam, probably. Rinse. Spit. “But for the record? I would’ve dropped to my knees between your legs downstairs if you let me.”

You open the shower door. Joel’s drying his mouth with a small white towel, shirt already off. His chest and arms are solid, broad shoulders, strong build, but there’s a softness to his stomach that makes you want to press yours right up against it.

“Why don’t you come in here?” you say.

Apparently, that’s exactly what he was waiting for.

He unbuckles his belt. As he’s unbuttoning his pants, you slip back into the shower. Seconds later, Joel steps inside behind you, shutting the glass door, and your wet body meets his at the exact moment your mouths collide.

His hands are strong as they grab your hips, and he’s got enough height on you to make you feel entirely surrounded, completely taken. His kiss is firm, just like you imagined it would be, and his body is hot against yours, his torso pressed tight as chills ripple across your skin every time his mouth covers yours. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer, your breasts pressed against his chest, and take the initiative to part your lips and run your tongue across the seam of his.

Joel inhales sharply, fists your hair at the nape of your neck, and deepens the kiss, his tongue meeting yours. It’s so good and so commanding that your brain wants to shut down completely, which is probably why it’s sending frantic signals to your limbs to just submit, let him take over. But there’s so much you want to touch.

Your wet hands roam over his back, his shoulders. You breathe him in, savoring the way his grip on your ass tightens as he pulls you against him. His cock is hard and hot against the lowest part of your belly.

Your lips part with a wet pop, and his mouth drifts downward to your jaw just as he grabs your hand and wraps it around his thick cock. He covers your fingers with his own and moves them up and down once. Just once. Enough to make it obvious what he wants from you.

You take the opportunity to glance down, watching as your fingers wrap around him, the swollen head disappearing and reappearing with every stroke. He’s firm and soft, and the trimmed hair on his groin is the end of the trail that starts at his navel. You want to lick him from top to bottom.

Your rhythm falters slightly when Joel’s mouth finds your neck, your collarbones, while his hands explore your breasts, waist, hips.

“Fuck, you’re even hotter than I imagined,” he says, lifting your chin with a tug of your hair so he can kiss you again.

“Did you listen to a single thing I said tonight or were you just busy fantasizing about me?”

Joel groans when you press your palm against the head of his cock, a deep, low sound.

“I can do both. Especially when both are this damn interesting.”

The gray in his hair darkens under the steam. He kisses so well it’s borderline unfair, and it’s only because he kisses you again that you almost don’t notice when his hand slides down your back, over your ass, between your legs, and grabs your pussy from behind. His satisfied hum at how wet you are is drowned out by your gasp.

Without hesitation, he sinks his middle finger inside you. Your hand freezes around his cock, but Joel clicks his tongue.

“Keep stroking me,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop.”

Good for Joel if he can multitask. Despite all that talk about women being naturally better at it, tonight you’re failing. He’s fingering you from behind, one foot between yours keeping your legs spread, and you can’t jerk him off in any rhythm that would make sense. Your brain’s gone to mush.

“Shit,” Joel says, sounding almost… frustrated. “You’re so fucking tight around my fingers. I need to…”

You melt in his arms as he pulls his fingers from you, puts you against the glass wall of the shower and kneels in front of you, lifting one of your thighs over his shoulder before leaning in to lick you. You writhe against him, your heel pressing into the hard muscle of his back, but his fingers on your thighs feel like steel clamps.

He doesn’t waste time. Licks you from bottom to top, probably more for himself than for you, but after that, he’s relentless, sucking directly on your clit, already swollen and sensitive. Your hair slips from its bun. Joel’s dark eyes devour your chest, your face, while his tongue works magic between your legs, making you moan without shame.

Your hips move on instinct against his mouth, riding his face, and Joel encourages it.

“Joel—”

“You just ruined my whole damn month,” he says, switching his mouth for his thumb. He circles your clit slowly, massaging, pressing. Your leg trembles. “I’m gonna remember the sound of you moaning my name for days. At work. In meetings. At home…”

You smile up at the ceiling, still half delirious, when Joel bites the soft spot where your thigh meets your hip.

“Eyes on me, baby,” he orders.

You obey.

When he puts his mouth on you again, it’s clear he has one goal: to make you come. And there’s your answer. Maybe one — maybe zero — of the men you’ve slept with before knew the right pressure to suck your clit, not too hard, not lazy, and even fewer had the patience to push you to the edge, to keep their eyes on you, to make it unforgettable.

The orgasm hits like a wave, consuming you from the inside out. Joel has to hold you against the glass to keep you from collapsing or slipping. You whimper, dissolving like sugar in water, pulsing against his tongue. And when he stands up again, your eyes are instantly drawn to his still rock-hard cock, now flushed almost red.

Joel presses a chaste kiss to your temple and whispers,

“Turn around.”

“I’m not having sex without a condom,” you say, but still turn, planting your hands against the shower wall.

“Neither am I.”

That doesn’t stop him from sliding his cock between your folds, holding your hips steady. You press your legs together.

“This okay?” he checks. You nod. He hums, “Good.”

Joel wraps an arm around your waist, his solid forearm crossing over your stomach, and rolls his hips while his free hand caresses every inch of you. The thick head of his cock slides up and down between your folds, brushing your clit with every slow thrust, drawing out a whimper from your throat. He leaves kisses down your spine, over your shoulder blade, and they melt into warm sighs as you reach between your legs and press his cock harder against yourself. It glides easily, soaked by how wet you are, and you bite your lip to keep from begging him to just fuck you already.

Then, without warning, he pulls back, withdrawing from between your legs. He turns your face to kiss you again, his breath ragged against your lips. You try to stroke him, needing to feel how hard he still is, but Joel catches your wrist, brushing his thumb softly across it.

“No,” he says gently. “Give me a second, alright? I’m close.”

You kiss his cheek, then whisper,

“I can get you hard again.”

The low, raspy laugh he lets out is the sexiest sound you’ve heard all night, especially at that volume, intimate and low, meant only for you.

“I’m not twenty-five anymore. My refractory period’s a lot longer now.”

There’s something about the way he says it, with total confidence despite the admission, like he couldn’t care less about the time it takes because he knows damn well how good he is, that makes you grab him again. Joel pulls you close, kisses you with that same depth, and reaches over to shut the water off before guiding you gently out of the shower.

Your body’s soaked, still dripping, and Joel’s not much drier as you both step out of the bathroom and walk across the room to the bed. Wet footprints trail behind you, and you almost feel bad for the pristine white sheets as Joel eases you down into the center of the mattress. Then he covers you with his body, and for a few minutes, his body is all you feel.

The positions shift, and now you’re on top of him. Joel keeps his eyes on you as you move along his body, one of his hands massaging the back of your neck in a firm and steady way, but the second your mouth closes around him, his eyes shut. His fingers tighten against your throat.

You’re not usually great at maintaining eye contact during a blowjob because it always makes you feel like you look ridiculous with your mouth full, but when you look up, it’s not about being sexy. You just need to see the way his jaw clenches, how the veins on his neck stand out. A slow pass of your tongue over the swollen head and that tender spot just beneath it makes him unravel even more.

Maybe it’s nothing to be proud of, but sucking him feels good. Your mind goes completely quiet, focused only on his sounds, the moans, the sighs, the dirty words he murmurs each time you suck the head, massage that sensitive spot, or slide your lips down his full length with your teeth carefully covered.

You feel his thighs begin to tense right before he massages your jaw and gently nudges you back up. He exhales deeply, letting his head fall against the pillow again, speaking more to the ceiling than to you.

“Okay. Now I really wish I was twenty-five again.”

You’re so wet between your legs that you can feel it slick between your folds as you crawl back up over Joel’s body and straddle his hips with a smile, wiping your lips with your fingertips. It’s almost instinctive, the way your hands flatten on his stomach, gliding over his torso, his pecs, his freckled shoulders.

“Too close?”

Joel nods, finally looking at you again. Just as naturally, his hands roam over your thighs, admiring you.

“Too close,” he agrees. “And I’m cursing myself because it felt so damn good. You’re so damn good.”

Call it what you want, but being praised for something you’re good at is always an ego boost, whether it’s about defending constitutional violations in a cert petition or the way you suck a man off.

“What’s your practice area?” you ask, since the idea is to give him a moment to cool down. “I saw your bar card.”

“Employment and labor law... For companies. And commercial litigation.”

Ah. So that’s why the bartender said he was some sort of national hero to corporations. Great. You’ve ended up in bed with a champion of the bourgeoisie.

“In-house?”

His eyes stay fixed on the small birthmark near your hip, tracing it with his thumb as he answers:

“No. I’ve got my own firm.”

“I work at one.”

That makes him lift his eyes, his hands pausing.

“You’re an attorney?” he asks. You nod. “What area?”

“Employment.”

“Please tell me it’s not mine.”

“You wouldn’t know an associate at your own firm?” you ask, a little surprised.

“I don’t keep up with everyone. Not anymore.” Joel wraps one arm around your hips just before sitting up in bed, you still in his lap. Gently, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and leans in. A kiss to your neck, then one to your throat, his hands sliding up your back. “I don’t only work in Texas, even though I started here. We’ve got offices in California and New York, and I live there now.”

The next kiss on your neck has a bit more bite, which makes you shift on his lap, your fingers threading through his damp hair.

Your voice trembles a little when you say,

“I’ll never represent companies. And no teeth. I’ve got a hearing tomorrow.”

He murmurs a soft “sorry” against your skin and, with both hands on your back, lowers you gently so he can start licking your breasts. When his mouth closes around one of them, the only thing your brain can think is:

“The teeth. There… Okay. That’s allowed.”

Joel laughs quietly, but he takes the hint. The next time he sucks on your nipple, his tongue circles the tip and his teeth graze just the right amount, sending a sharp pulse through your body. He gives equal attention to both before rising to kiss you again, his hand finding its way between your legs, fingers pressing against your folds with a rhythm and pressure so delicious it almost feels criminal. The wet sound that follows makes you blush, but Joel’s response is a curse along with him slipping two fingers inside.

You choke on a breath, shift your hips, try to accommodate him. Asks:

“If I worked for you, would you stop this? Fire me?”

“Nothing in the world could make me stop this.” A pause. “I’m adding another finger,” more a warning than a request, but you’re so wet and relaxed that all you feel is a slight burn and the undeniable fullness as he slides a third one in.

“Condom,” you say. Demand.

Joel’s still got his face tucked into the curve of your neck, his fingers working inside you, when he reaches blindly toward the nightstand. He must’ve placed one there while you were in the shower. God, you love a man who plans ahead.

Except—

“Shit,” he mutters. “It’s in my kit. In the bathroom.”

“I’m this close to telling you to fuck me without it.”

A nearly painful groan.

“Don’t say that. I’m already picturing it…” His thumb circles your clit. Rubs. “Picturing what it’d feel like to come inside you.”

“I think we should be responsible.”

That’s your rational brain speaking, and it’s the only reason you get off his lap and step out of bed to head toward the bathroom. There’s nothing on the counter but your clothes, and you’re not even sure how to open these fancy, handle-less cabinets.

“Joel,” you call out.

Sheets rustle. Footsteps. Then a hand on your waist, gently guiding you to the right. Joel taps one corner of a door with his thumb, and it opens with ease to reveal a toiletry kit. He pulls out a condom, holding it between two fingers.

“Hard to find?”

You turn to him.

“Never seen handle-less doors before. Must be a fancy-room thing for bougie corporate lawyers.”

Joel watches you as he tears the packet open, and you feel a little self-conscious under the bathroom’s harsh lighting, aware that a few strands of hair are probably out of place and your dark circles look even more visible after all the stress about tomorrow’s, but his cock is still hard as ever while he rolls the condom down his length.

“A class enemy?” he asks softly once he’s done, stepping closer until the marble counter presses against the small of your back. Joel lowers his head, cradles your jaw, and kisses the corner of your mouth. “Am I corrupting you?”

“No one needs to know.”

All it takes is his hands on your hips and one solid pull to seat you on the counter, Joel stepping between your legs.

“Shame. But I’m gonna make you forget all about the hate,” he promises, spreading your thighs and dragging you to the edge of the counter. You grip his shoulders, and before anything else, he takes your jaw again and makes you look down and watch as he guides himself toward you. “Come on, love. Watch while you let your enemy slide inside that pussy.”

You plant one foot on the counter to open yourself up wider, tilt your hips to get a better look as his thick cock drags from top to bottom between your folds before finally breaching your entrance.

“Joel—”

He slides all the way in, and you squeeze your eyes shut, fingers digging into his shoulders. Joel covers your mouth with his, wraps your thighs around his hips, and with one hand braced on the mirror behind you, finally, finally!, starts to fuck you.

Joel keeps in mind what you said about no visible marks, but it seems he took a generous interpretation of that rule because he doesn’t leave any where people might see. The relentless motion of his hips and the deep thrusts inside you come paired with kisses to your neck, slow bites to your breasts (which will definitely leave reminders for the rest of the year), and praises whispered against your ear. So fucking good, never had anyone like you, wanna spend all night buried inside you…

God. A goddamn talker. Like you weren’t already absolutely wrecked.

At some point, you end up standing, bent over the sink, and the marks Joel leaves are now on your back. He grabs your hair, makes you watch through the mirror, grips your ass with both hands, and you’re not proud of how many times you beg.

He listens, delivers. When he needs a break himself, he slips out of you, urges you to arch even deeper, and puts his mouth on you from behind, licking your pussy like a man starving for it. You come in seconds, shaking, still trembling when he guides you back to bed. Then he takes you back to the bed, guides you onto your back, opens your legs like you’re his to take and slides back inside you.

At some point, with your throat dry, you whisper in his ear,

“Look at you. You’re fucking me like I’m an employee at one of your clients’ companies.”

Joel laughs out loud, and it’s one of the most delicious sounds you’ve ever heard. He laughs with his mouth against yours, holding you close, his body shaking with it, and you can’t help but laugh along with him.

“You pretty thing, shut up,” he says, but it’s so gentle, so intimate.

“Wanna know how you can shut me up?” you ask, pressing your lips to his sweaty neck, licking the salt from his skin. Joel says your name like a warning as he fucks you slowly, his thrusts deep and deliberate. “Come in my mouth.”

The groan that escapes him is raw, guttural, completely involuntary. One hand goes to the back of your neck, the other grips your hips, and he starts to lose control, faster, rougher, frantic, until he pulls out, takes off the condom, and climbs up your body until his knees are on the mattress beside your shoulder and his cock is back in your mouth.

Joel looks down as your lips close around his swollen head, chest rising and falling, and it only takes a few strokes of your tongue and a warning before he’s coming in your mouth, long and hard, moaning your name. You swallow everything and feel your belly tighten when he calls you a good girl, privately and softly, before leaning down to kiss you.

When he finally collapses beside you, both of you are exhausted, slick with sweat, and the ceiling seems a little brighter somehow.

You turn your head to look at him, and he turns his toward you.

“Intimate enough for you?” you ask.

“Not sure. I think I need to fuck you two more times to be certain.”

Smiling this much at a casual hookup is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.

“And I need food.”

“Want me to order room service?”

That… wasn’t your intention. You meant you need to go, grab something to eat, make a clean exit for the both of you.

You sit up in bed. The clock on the table in front of you says it’s nine-thirty.

“Is the food here any good?” you ask, and apparently, somewhere in that question, there’s an answer to his invitation.

Joel orders room service, pays for everything, and you head back to the shower. And Joel follows… again. Somewhere in that overly capable, slightly aging brain of his, he decides you need to come again using his fingers. Then by holding the shower head directly to your clit, the water pressure making you twist and writhe against him. By the time the food arrives, you’re already half-asleep.

You’re in a robe, your hair is clean, the bed is soft, and Joel is… comfortable.

The perfect setup for sleep.

You wake up to the sound of a siren.

The hotel windows are thick and sealed shut, but the siren outside, somewhere in the city, is high-pitched and unrelenting, dragging you out of a deep, warm sleep. If not for the bedside lamp set to its lowest brightness, the room would be completely dark, and you wouldn’t be able to see Joel’s relaxed face as he sleeps, or the way his arm is still wrapped around your waist.

It’s hard, but you manage to slip out of the heat of his body, gently move his arm, and step out of bed on your toes. It’s just past two in the morning, and suddenly the weight of tomorrow hits you like an anvil dropped on a cartoon character.

Your clothes are perfectly folded on one of the chairs in the sitting area, and you dress quietly. You gather your bag, your heels (which you’ll only put on once you’re outside), and head for the door.

But something makes you pause and glance back at the bed.

Joel is sleeping on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow, one arm still stretched across where you had been. The lamp casts a golden glow on his back, highlighting the strength and breadth of it, and it’s almost ridiculous how good-looking he is.

The internal conflict eats away at you like time rotting the beams of an old building. You know this isn’t going anywhere, because Joel lives in New York and is so disconnected from Austin that he stays in hotels when he visits. And more than that, he’s the opposing counsel in theory and in practice, no matter how funny that sounds. You know it’s not just a joke. Joel is part of a defense you’ve grown to resent, built by years of listening to thousands of workers’ stories.

And you want him.

Fuck. Stupid. Stupid. The word rings in your head as you grab one of the extra napkins from the room service tray and a gold pen you find, with “Miller” engraved on the side in elegant block letters. You write your number. And beneath it:

“This isn’t the wrong number.”

Maybe you’re not that much of a player after all.

You’ve always hated how sterile, bright, and quiet the federal courthouse hallways are. The building is new, that much is obvious, with the clean lines, polished stone floors, blinding LED panel lights, and what it lacks in Corinthian columns and grand wooden staircases, it makes up for in blankness.

You’re sitting on the fifth-floor hallway bench, just to the side of one of the brushed-steel elevators. To your left are two named plaintiffs representing the twenty workers in the class action, and in your lap are the affidavits of the other eighteen.

You force yourself not to bounce your foot, the one inside your sharpest pair of scarpins, or shuffle through the papers to confirm everything is in place. You know it is. You triple-checked before leaving the house.

“Where’s the hellhound at?” one of the workers asks. You look at him, puzzled, until he clarifies, “Their lawyer.”

“Not here yet. Maybe they’re waiting to make a grand entrance.”

What leaves the plaintiff’s mouth sounds a lot like “motherfuckers.”

In moments like this, one thought always helps calm you: tonight, I’ll be home doing whatever I want, with none of this tension on me. So you picture yourself walking through the door, kicking off your heels, tossing your briefcase aside. You imagine turning on Netflix, pressing play on some stupid British dating show, and working up the courage to respond to Joel’s text, sent at six a.m. this morning:

“Prove you didn’t give me the wrong number. Meet me tomorrow at eight. Same place.”

Tonight. That’s your goal.

Five minutes before the hearing time, you’re led to the anteroom outside the courtroom. Other attorneys are waiting too, talking over one another about past or upcoming hearings. The noise only adds to the tension.

At 10:01, the courtroom deputy calls out:

“Grant et. al versus Castillo Construction & Co., please proceed into the courtroom.”

You rise, gather your documents, your bag, your case file. With shoulders straight and chin lifted, you walk down the hallway to Courtroom 3. The two named plaintiffs follow you, but you let them enter first before stepping in behind them. You hear footsteps behind you.

Ahead, the courtroom opens into a wide space with light wood-paneled walls, narrow windows, and rows of empty cushioned benches. At the front are two wooden tables set parallel before the bench, where the judge, seated, reviews documents.

The plaintiffs take their seats, and you sit beside them, focused on arranging your files on the table beside your tablet. The defense table is soon occupied, but you don’t bother to look over.

After a few minutes, the judge lifts her eyes from the papers and says, in a clear, even voice,

“Good morning, counsel. Appearances, please.”

You stand, steady your voice, say your full name, and with pride, state that you represent the plaintiffs, feeling some kind of heat settle on you from the other side of the room.

You sit down. Out of the corner of your eye, you see someone at the defense table rise.

For a moment, everything slows. That same voice that whispered your name over and over last night echoes again with a “Good morning.” And for a split second, you wonder if you’re hallucinating or stuck in a really vivid, really awful nightmare.

But you’re not. Because what comes next is the final blow, the one that confirms everything:

Your lips close around the straw again, and though your vision is slightly blurred at the edges, you stay locked in on the silver-haired man in his fifties, full beard and all, leaning against the wall with a cue stick in hand as he waits for his turn. He laughs at something his buddy says, and somehow, the drink tastes sweeter while you’re watching those broad shoulders under a plain black T-shirt and those strong thighs in faded dark jeans.

His turn.

He leans over the table, lines up the shot. His biceps flex, looking even bigger as he makes that typical forward-and-back motion before striking. His eyes are fixed on the red ball, until…

Suddenly, they’re on you.

Your stomach drops like you swallowed an ice cube. Still looking your way, brows slightly furrowed, he makes the shot. You don’t even have to follow the ball to know it sank clean.

His friend says something, and just like that, he looks away.

“Oh my God, stop flirting with the geriatrics,” your friend says, placing another espresso martini in front of you. “Adam wants to take you home. You know, the skinny blond guy…”

“The twenty-seven-year-old,” you say. “He’s a baby. And I bet he’s circumcised.”

“You’re twenty-five. What’s your beef with circumcised guys?”

You skip that question because there’s no polite way to explain your preference when it comes to pool cues.

“I like my men the way I like my cheese.”

“Old and stinky?”

“Aged!” you correct. “Y’all can keep your cheddar. I want my Gruyère.”

Your table erupts in laughter.

It’s your oldest friend’s birthday tonight, and you all decided to celebrate her twenty-ninth at Miller’s Bar, run by Tommy, an old friend of your dad’s, and his wife, Maria. Luckily, your summer break from grad school lined up with her birthday, and coming back to Austin is always worth it for nights like this.

And it’s not hard to imagine the kind of attention a group of girls in short skirts, high boots, and crop tops draws inside a traditional Texas bar.

You’re halfway through your espresso martini on your next sip, and for some reason, that reminds your bladder it needs attention. You excuse yourself and get up, though no one really hears you, and head straight for the bathrooms in the back of the bar, tucked at the end of a dim, nicotine-reeking hallway, where the air clings to your skin and the walls are hung with fading paintings of bulls, cows and longhorns.

Your bathroom mission is quick, mostly because it’s way too dirty to linger. Pee, quick reflection while perched on the toilet seat (layered in toilet paper), a bit of lipstick, a quick hair touch-up.

The music from outside, a Dolly Parton classic, fills the bathroom as you open the door, and it only takes one step into the dark hallway for you to slam into a wall of concrete.

“Shit,” says the wall.

Strong hands catch your shoulders and push you back, and suddenly your face is being tilted up by firm fingers.

“You alright?”

Black T-shirt. Gray beard. You blink, looking up, and your stomach flips again. He’s even bigger up close.

“Oww,” you whisper dramatically, touching your temple. Showtime. Anything to keep his hands on you a little longer. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”

“Doubt it. Looks to me like you’ve had a few too many.”

“You sure? Here,” you grab his hand and place it on your forehead. “Do I have a fever? What if you gave me a concussion?”

“Your fault for not lookin’ where you were going.”

You squint up at him again. He pulls his hand away and only now do you realize just how big it is and how thick his fingers are.

He’s raising an eyebrow, but there’s a hint of amusement on his lips that pushes you to blurt your name, offer a handshake, and say:

“How about I buy you a drink as an apology?”

The smile dies. He ignores your hand, pats the top of your head twice, like you would a puppy, and sidesteps you, saying:

“Go find someone your age, kiddo. Plenty of boys in there’ll want you.”

“I don’t want someone my age!” you call out after his retreating back.

“Too damn bad.”

He steps into the men’s room, and you feel your shoulders slump with disappointment. Would a lower-cut top have helped?

“When you think like that, feminism goes back twenty years,” your friend says when you repeat that exact thought to her. “He’s supposed to like you for your personality.”

“I don’t want him to eat out my personality.”

He walks past your booth and heads back to the pool area, and your eyes eat him up again, but then Adam, the allegedly circumcised boy, and his crew show up, cramming into your booth and blocking your view.

It’s hard, but you resist the urge to roll your eyes and order another espresso martini instead.

At some point in the night, you get fed up with the boys and their dumb incel-tier jokes, so you decide to leave. Your friends ask if you want company walking home, but you decline, even though your legs feel a little wobbly as you stand. You pay your part of the bill, say your goodbyes and make your way to the bar’s exit.

There’s a chilly breeze outside that raises goosebumps on your arms, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, leaning slightly against the wall as you dial your dad’s number.

It rings ten times and goes to voicemail.

You try again.

Voicemail.

“I don’t sleep until you’re home,” you mutter mockingly, repeating what they always say. “Bet they’re deep in REM by now.”

You’re typing your home address into the Uber app when the bar door opens again. Your eyes meet his.

“Changed your mind?” you ask, trying to sound alluring.

He closes the door behind him and looks both ways down the empty sidewalk before turning back to you with indignation.

“What the hell are you doing out here alone? Where’re your friends?”

“They stayed.”

“And they just let you stand out here by yourself?”

You ignore him, already over this conversation, and hit enter on the app. The fare loads. Shit. Twenty bucks to get home? That’s ridiculous. And the nearest driver’s twenty minutes away.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

“I’m not telling you where I live, stalker,” you mutter, eyes still on your phone.

“Five minutes ago, you were trying to buy me a drink.”

“So? Telling you where I live is crossing a line.”

“I ain’t leaving you out here alone.”

“Hey,” you spin to face him and point a slightly shaky finger in his direction. “You’re not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.”

He stares at your red-polished finger, then at your face, then raises his hands in surrender and walks past you toward the bar’s parking lot in silence.

Fine. Gotta love a hot guy who thinks he owns the damn world. Most exhausting type.

Alone again, you refresh the app a few times, and on the third, the price jumps from twenty to twenty-five dollars.

“Noooo,” you groan, leaning your head back against the wall to stare at the stars. Could you walk home? No… way too dangerous. And your high-heeled boots were not made for that.

The bar door opens again. You don’t look up to see who it is, and you don’t need to, because ten seconds later, there’s a hand on your waist. You jerk away, startled, trying to shake off the touch, but the grip is strong.

“Hey there, baby girl,” Adam says, way too close. You can feel his booze-soaked breath. “I got your message.”

His blown pupils freak you out, but it’s the fact that you can’t break his grip that makes your heart spike. You’re trying, but your espresso martini-filled body is sluggish. His hands feel like steel clamps against your dull reflexes.

“What message?”

“You wanted me to follow you out.”

“No, I didn’t. I just wanna go home. Let go.”

You try again. He holds tighter. Now he’s pressing his hips against yours. You push him, but every one of those espresso martinis slows you down.

“No need to make this so hard, baby girl. I saw the way you were lookin’ at me.”

“Let me go!”

Bile creeps up your throat and you swallow it down just to gather enough air to scream—

“Hey, kid,” a deep voice growls to your left, and your body nearly buckles with relief when he, Mr. Difficult, steps into view. He looks pissed.

“You back off her or you’re heading back to college five teeth short.”

Adam stumbles backward immediately, fear plain on his face. Mr. Difficult gives you a short nod, and you rush to him in quick steps, heart racing, tucking yourself beneath his broad frame like it’s shelter from the storm.

“These cameras,” he says, pointing to the ones mounted on the bar’s exterior, “I’ll have those tomorrow. Sexual harassment? I hope you don’t have a scholarship.”

Adam starts to say something, probably begging not to be exposed, but you don’t hear it. You’re gripping the man’s forearm, and he’s guiding you toward a black pickup parked between the shiny little cars of the boys still inside the bar.

In silence, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in: slow, one foot on the step, the other in, legs together, finally settled. Then he shuts it and walks around to the driver’s side. For a moment, you feel like Bella Swan hopping onto the back of that weird guy’s bike in New Moon.

He gets in, shuts the door, and takes a deep breath before saying so firmly you don’t even think to argue:

“Give me your address. I’m taking you home.”

Defeated, you tell him. Only then does he start the truck and pull out of the bar’s lot.

“You know that guy?”

“I know his name’s Adam, but I don’t know him. Don’t even know his last name. He’s a friend of a friend.”

“Goddamn criminal little punks,” he mutters, rolling up the windows and turning on the heat when he notices you’re trembling, even though the cold has little to do with it. “You alright?”

“I’m… yeah. I think so. Thanks for stepping in.”

He keeps driving, and you use the quiet moment to steady your breath and your hands. The streets of Austin are empty, ghostly, barely any cars out, and your mind wanders for a second. Maybe it’s time to finally sign up for that self-defense class your dad kept telling you to take back in Houston.

You wedge your hands between your thighs to warm them and settle into the seat. You pretend not to hear when Mr. Difficult’s phone rings and he answers:

“Miller,” he says flatly. Someone talks on the other end. “What the hell happened to Jesse? Tonight’s his shift, not mine.” More silence. Then Miller, his newly revealed last name, curses under his breath and snaps, “I’m on my way.”

He hangs up and makes a sudden, hard right, jostling your body and making your eyes go wide.

“Are you kidnapping me?!”

His frustrated sigh fills the cab.

“You’re way too damn annoying to be kept in captivity,” he grumbles, accelerating. “They need me at work and I can’t drop you off first. It’s urgent. You’ll wait for me.”

“I can call another Uber.”

“You ain’t calling an Uber drunk like that.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because,” Miller says through gritted teeth, eyes on the road, “it’s literally my job to protect dumbass civilians who walk themselves into danger. I swore an oath. Now zip it.”

Civilians? Swore an oath?

Five minutes later, you get your answer as the wide property of the Austin Fire Department fills your vision, the U.S. and Texas flags flapping hard in the night wind. Miller drives through the open gate and parks beside the building.

“Come with me.”

You follow, still dazed, clacking behind him in your high-heeled boots. He doesn’t check if you’re keeping up, just walks with long, fast strides, and when he reaches the covered part of the station, three mustached men in full gear look at him like he’s the second coming.

The rest of the crew is further back, checking one of the trucks. They’re all huge.

“Chief,” one of them says. Chief?

“We need you. We got a call on—”

“Where the hell is Jesse?!” Miller practically growls. The three of them look at each other, shrinking a bit despite all standing well over six feet. “He think he’s back in school? What if I’d been drinking tonight? You’d go on a call short-handed? Hell of a teammate, that one.”

You’re only noticed when Miller turns his head toward you and calls out again:

“Come on.”

You do, still quiet. The firefighters tear their eyes off him and look at you, and yep… there it is. Raised brows, head-to-toe glance, lingering a bit too long on your skirt, and an open flirt-ready expression.

Miller shuts that down real fast:

“Eyes off, punks. I’ll be down in two.”

You give them a sheepish smile, but what you really want to say is: Yeah! That’s right, punks! Eyes off!

With a little bounce in your step, like a kid who just got praised by the teacher for their stick-figure drawing, you follow Miller up the stairs, metal steps creaking beneath you both.

Upstairs, you find the firefighters’ break room: a big dining table, a flat-screen TV, leather couches, and a kitchen tucked in an attached nook. You glance away from the wall of photos just in time to catch Miller stepping into his bunker pants, still over his jeans, and pulling the suspenders over his shoulders.

Shameless, you watch the whole thing while having a revelation. Yeah, now you get why firefighters are in every cliché fantasy ever. If Miller climbed into your window wearing that gear, you’d one hundred percent say something ridiculous like, “Here to put out my fire, officer?”

Next comes the heavy coat, and you can already see the sweat forming along his hairline as he zips and buttons everything up.

“Wait here for me. There’s coffee, water…” he gestures vaguely around the room, clearly in a rush. “Bathroom, running water, all that. Won’t be long.”

Before you can say anything else, he grabs his helmet and gloves and jogs down the stairs, pulling the Nomex hood over his head as he goes.

Moments later, the siren roars through the station, and as it fades into the night, it becomes nothing more than a ghostly hum at the back of your mind.

You sit on the couch, staring at the white wall with your hands tucked between your thighs. A firefighter. The chief.

Have you accidentally wandered into one of those steamy books you secretly read before bed? Or are you still sitting on the toilet in that grimy bar bathroom, hallucinating on espresso martinis?

The TV’s on. The news is covering a convenience store fire, result of an electrical short. Flames rage against the dark Austin sky, the interior swallowed by orange heat, yellow police tape keeping the crowd away. Thankfully, the store was empty when it caught fire.

Firefighters are en route, the reporter says, visibly relieved, and you curl onto your side on the couch, hands folded beneath your cheek, watching the broadcast.

You blink a little slower this time, and then everything goes dark.

“Were you trying to flash your panties to everyone in here? Damn short skirt.”

That’s the first thing you hear when you come to, groggy, as something is gently draped over your legs. You crack one eye open to find Miller carefully placing a leather jacket that smells like men’s cologne across your thighs. Only then do you realize just how comfortable you’d been lying there, considering the length of your skirt.

He keeps adjusting the jacket until everything’s covered. There’s no judgment in it. No irritation that you passed out like that. Just care, obvious in the way he pulls and tugs at the edges without ever letting his fingers brush your skin. And that, somehow, disorients you more than if he’d called you a name or scolded you outright.

“You’re back,” you mumble.

He shoots you a sidelong glance. His cheeks are smudged with soot and ash, his hair sweaty and tousled. The jacket’s gone, his suspenders hanging loose by his hips.

“Yeah. Didn’t die.”

“Thank God,” you murmur, eyes falling shut again. “What a waste that would’ve been.”

He clicks his tongue, exasperated.

You hear footsteps moving away, and peek through one eye to see him heading toward one of the adjoining rooms, tugging off his soaked black T-shirt in the process. The sight of his broad back makes your mouth go dry, especially with the reminder of what that body does for a living. All that strength. All that control.

Before the thought can spiral, other firefighters filter into the room, looking just as worn out as Miller.

“You the chief’s new girl?” one of them asks in a low voice, clearly trying not to be heard by said chief. He looks suspiciously like Bradley Bradshaw from Top Gun.

“No. He doesn’t want me.”

That earns you a burst of chaos. Whistles and chuckles like a group of teenage boys, not grown men who just came back from a fire call. Someone at the back yells, “I do!” and you ignore it, because you don’t kiss babies. Not when there’s a fire chief with a back like that about to drive you home.

You sit up on the couch, keeping Miller’s jacket across your lap, and glance at the coffee carafe they’re passing around.

“Can I have some?” you ask, motioning toward it.

They scramble like it’s a competition: who’ll pour, who’ll carry it over, who’ll get that sweet little “thank you” you sing out.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Miller says as he reappears, now in a fresh T-shirt bearing the Austin Fire Department logo on the chest and a clean face to go with it. His silver hair is damp, slicked back. He points at you. “Up. Let’s go.”

You rush to finish your coffee, burning your tongue in the process, and set the cup down to join him, still holding his jacket.

“I don’t know who’s been in contact with Jesse, but tell him he’s off the rest of the week. Maybe a seven-day suspension will help him get his shit together.”

One of them steps forward. “Chief—”

“That’s not a request, Lieutenant, that’s a decision. You boys need to learn the weight of the oath we swore.”

Silence.

Miller’s voice sharpens. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Miller places a hand on your shoulder and guides you forward. You walk ahead of him, down the stairs and out to his truck in silence.

“Tell me your address again,” he says once you’re both seated, looking worn out.

“You’re the fire chief.”

“Battalion chief,” he corrects, starting the engine. “Address.”

You tell him. He starts to drive. You watch him for a few seconds, then say:

“That was hot. The way you chewed them out? Extremely hot.”

“What’s with your thing for older men?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” you exclaim, and Miller rolls his eyes. Still grinning, you explain, “It’s not a thing. I just prefer older guys because they actually know what they’re doing. It’s not a crime.”

“How old are you?”

“You gonna judge me?”

“Seriously?” Miller stops at a red light even though the streets are deserted. It’s well past three a.m. “You’ve said all kinds of crap tonight, and this is what you’re worried about being judged for?”

“Because then you won’t wanna kiss me.”

“I’m not gonna kiss you either way.”

“See? That’s discrimination.”

“You still drunk?”

You think about it. Your vision’s clear now, no blurs at the edges. That weird rush in your ears is gone. The coffee and the nap did wonders.

“I’m not,” you say, turning in your seat to face him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, like he’s afraid to admit you’re even in the truck with him. Finally, you say, “Twenty-five.”

“I’m twenty-seven years older than you.”

The light turns green. He drives.

“That just sounds like motivation to me,” you say, watching the way his thumb tightens around the leather steering wheel for half a second, his only reaction. “Are you married? Dating? Secret vow of celibacy?”

He shakes his head. No to all.

“My women need to be at least forty. That’s my cutoff.”

“Totally fair. Women in their forties are delicious,” you say, giving him a thumbs-up. “But there’s always an exception, right?”

“No. Not with you.”

“Am I ugly?”

“You know damn well you’re not. Those boys at the station were practically undressing you with their eyes.”

A Cheshire cat smile spreads across your lips.

“You noticed? Look at you, paying attention,” you tease, but he doesn’t respond, and you know your limit. You stop pushing. “Okay. You don’t want me. Got it. I’ll stop.”

Silence. His forearms have so many veins. You bounce your leg, restless, and because you can’t shut up, you say:

“Thanks for taking care of our city, Chief.”

More silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a deep laugh fills the space between you, and the sound makes you melt right into the seat.

“You’re really somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

“Oh God,” you groan. “You’re gonna make this harder if you call me sweetheart.”

“What’s the difference with older men, anyway?”

“Fishing for an ego boost?”

“Forget I asked.”

“No, no, wait, sorry,” you say quickly, folding one leg under you and straightening like you’re about to give a TED Talk. You’re not wasting this moment. “Okay, listen, I lost my virginity in college—”

Miller rubs a hand over his face. “Too much information.”

“—and it was awful!” you go on, like he didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t finish. I told him that, and he said it was normal. So I slept with another guy, and that sucked too. I tried to settle because I thought that’s just what straight-girl life was.”

Somewhere in the universal rules of womanhood, there’s probably a clause that says never trauma-dump on a man. No man is different. But now that your mouth is open, it won’t stop.

“So I went out with this guy.”

“A guy,” he repeats, leaning slightly to check the passenger-side mirror.

“I think he was forty-two at the time. Miller… was addictive.”

“I can already imagine why.”

“Mhm.”

“But that’s not a rule. Not every older guy knows how to do that.”

You resist the urge to ask if he’s talking about himself.

“Haven’t had any bad experiences yet.”

The car goes quiet for five more minutes. You recognize the avenue you’re on, which means you’re probably only ten minutes from home.

“Have you always been a battalion chief?”

“I transferred here four years ago. Before that, I was a commander in Seattle.”

“So that’s why I didn’t know you. When you came, I was still in college,” you say mostly to yourself. “Got it. You like it here?”

“I’m from here. Tommy’s my brother. I left for Seattle twenty years ago.”

“Tommy from the bar?!”

“Tommy from the bar,” he confirms.

Mouth falling open, you lean back in your seat. Makes sense. His last name is Miller.

“Wow. Tommy’s friends with my parents,” you process the information bit by bit. “You’re Joel.”

“Mhm.”

“Joel Miller.”

“Yes.”

“I remember he used to talk about you all the time when he came over,” you say, because it’s true. Everything was Joel. Apparently, Joel had been his savior when they were kids. “He must be happy you’re back… and as battalion chief, no less.”

It’s subtle, but the line between Joel’s brows eases just a little when you say that last part. Other than that, he doesn’t react much.

“Family’s family,” he replies simply.

You reach your parents’ street and direct him to the house. Joel parks in front of it, and you notice all the lights are off, the windows dark. The porch light is on, and you know the key’s tucked inside the lilac flower pot.

You unbuckle your seatbelt as you say,

“Thank you so much for the ride. I’m sorry if I pushed too much and made you uncomfortable.”

You open the door to get out. Joel says,

“Close that door.”

Your hand freezes on the latch. Joel’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes down. After a beat, you shut the door and sit back in your seat.

The console light dims.

You give him a moment because he looks like he’s wrestling half a dozen battles inside his own head.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says quietly, rubbing his hands against his jeans. “I just don’t think I’m what you really want.”

“I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear you’re exactly my type.”

“Sweetheart, no offense, but this feels more like some drunk little adventure you’ll laugh about with your girlfriends tomorrow.”

If there was even a drop of alcohol left in your system, that sentence burns it out.

“Just because you’re older?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Come on, Joel. That’s crap. Yeah, we’ve got a big age gap. But I told you what I like and why I like it.”

“Because you wanna be the wild friend?”

Your eyes go wide in disbelief. Your cheeks flare with anger, and you decide you’ve had enough. You reach for the door again, and the next second, a large hand covers yours and pulls it closed.

“Okay,” you murmur, still staring at his hand on top of yours, frozen. “Now I actually think you’re gonna kidnap me.”

“Shit,” he mutters, and he’s way too close. “Sorry. If you wanna get out, you can. I just… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

“So what’s this whole speech for, then?” you turn your face toward him, and now you’re only inches apart, since he leaned over to shut the door. “You don’t want me. I get it. I’m a big girl. I don’t need a speech.”

Joel looks from you to your house, scanning the darkened façade, probably noting the lights all off. When his eyes return to yours, there’s a new kind of resolve etched into his face.

“It’s gotta stay secret,” he says. No wiggle room.

Your breath starts coming just a little heavier.

“I won’t tell a soul,” you promise immediately.

“Not even your friends.”

“What’s the big fear?” you ask, half-teasing, though there’s a flicker of real curiosity beneath it. “You married?”

“Hell no. I’m just the brother of the guy who’s friends with your dad, and I guarantee he wouldn’t want some fifty-year-old sniffing around his little girl.”

“I’m twenty-five,” you repeat, but your voice wavers a bit as Joel leans closer. “It’s not up to my dad who I get involved with.”

“Good for you,” he says, like he couldn’t care less, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck. “Still damn young.”

“And yet, I’m gonna be your exception.”

He squints, confused, until it clicks.

“Oh. Right. The first twenty in my rulebook.”

You lean in, ready to kiss him, but Joel holds you still with his hand at your neck, like he’s waiting for something.

You say what he needs to hear:

“Won’t breathe a word about what you do with a younger girl in front of her house.”

“Good. That stays between me and God.”

He pulls you in, and the second your lips meet, you’re gone, falling into that familiar place you’ve always adored with older men.

Your brain short-circuits and Joel takes the lead in everything. His hand moves from your neck to the base of your skull, tugging you deeper, and he’s the one to part his lips, the one to tilt just right so your mouths fit like it’s a damn movie scene.

Your fingers slide into his hair, thick strands slipping between them, as you sink further into the seat. He follows, body hovering over yours. The moan that escapes your throat when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips is honest. The one that comes when he finally kisses you with tongue, though just as real, is so drawn out it makes your cheeks burn with the fear he might think you’re faking.

God. That kiss.

“It’s a crime to keep that kind of kiss from me,” you whisper breathless, chest rising and falling in quick bursts. Joel kisses your bottom lip, your jaw, drags his mouth down your neck. The ceiling of the truck blurs as he finds your collarbones, and you arch into him to give him more room. “Joel—”

His tongue meets the skin of your chest and you thank every higher power that your neckline’s just deep enough for him to reach the dip between your breasts. The ache between your thighs tightens, that telltale pulse of being soaked hitting you all at once.

“More,” you whisper, tugging his hair, just enough to let him know you want another kiss.

He gives it to you. One hand on your waist, the other on your neck, he kisses you again, and this one’s filthy from the first second, now that you both know exactly how to move together. You press harder into his hands.

“You can’t be this polite,” you murmur. “Aren’t you gonna slip your hand under my skirt?”

“Boundaries,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut when you trail kisses along his jaw, rough with beard stubble. There’s still a faint trace of sweat and smoke from the earlier call, and you should probably care about that, but you don’t.

“No way you’ve got boundaries still holding steady in that brain,” you say. You watch his face up close as you take his hand and guide it down from your waist to your thigh. He opens his eyes at the heat of your skin and keeps them on you as you lead his hand higher, higher… right to the hem of your skirt. You pause. Ask: “Can I?”

He swallows hard.

He’s the one who moves now, sliding his hand beneath your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing like he means it, hard enough to make you giggle. His fingers find the lace of your panties where it sits snug between your cheeks.

“No one’s out here,” you murmur. Your hand finds the thick bulge in his jeans, and you raise your brows at him. “Can I make you come?” you ask, giving just the faintest stroke, enough pressure to make the denim feel good, not rough. “Please. Want me to take my panties off while I touch you?”

Joel clenches his jaw. Moves his hand from your ass to the front of your panties, cupping your pussy fully, probably feeling the heat radiating for him. You spread your legs as much as the car seat allows, giving him space to explore, all while trying to slip your hand inside his jeans to—

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head like the effort to say it physically hurts. You pull your hand away instantly at his no, but raise an eyebrow, waiting for more. “No. Not here. I’m not about to come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.”

He pulls his hand back from between your legs, taking a steadying breath.

“Not here,” says again.

God. You could cry.

“Okay,” you say instead because you’re an adult and you respect a no. “Alright. Okay.”

“Go on. Get inside.”

But before you do, you raise a finger.

“Can I suggest something?”

You’re not quite sure how you manage to convince him, though that alone would be something worth bragging about, but somehow, you do. You talk Joel into parking a little farther down the street, just to be safe, and into sneaking in with you through the back door, because the front one’s too damn noisy.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist as you guide him through your dark house. A stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. A pause in the living room to make sure no one’s there. Then the stairs. One step at a time, silent. His brown eyes find yours every time you glance back.

And then Joel Miller is in your bedroom and you’re locking the door.

With his hands on his hips, he looks around: at the old band posters from when you were eighteen and just starting college, at the lilac bedsheets covering your mattress. The curtains are cracked open, letting in the pale glow of the moon and the streetlights outside, casting his silhouette in silver while you kick off your boots and socks and toss them aside.

“Prove to me you’re not drunk,” he says low.

“You want me to do a four?”

He keeps staring. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, lifting your right leg and crossing it over your left thigh, making the shape of a four with your legs.

“You’re so old,” you mutter, reaching ten in the count. “I already told you I’m not drunk. You know that perfect little buzz? That’s all I’ve got.”

“Enough to not regret this in the morning?”

“Regret you? Only if I were out of my mind.”

The plush carpet cushions your sore feet as you walk toward the bed. He just watches you. Watches as you climb onto the mattress, toss the pillows to the floor, and lie back on your elbows, looking straight at him.

One raised brow. A wordless well?

Joel looks up at the ceiling, like he’s saying a silent prayer, then bends down to remove his boots.

“You think you can stay quiet?” he asks, stepping closer. He mutters, “Refuse to come in my jeans like a damn teenager, but here I am sneaking into your house like one.”

Joel stands at the foot of your bed. You smile at him, about to unbutton your skirt, but he’s faster. His hands slip under the fabric, tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them aside.

You realize what he’s about to do when he plants one knee on the bed and starts lowering his head between your legs, but you stop him with your foot against his chest.

“You don’t have to,” you say quickly. You’ve been out all night with your friends. Sure, you showered before leaving, but still… it’s been hours. “It’s okay, I don’t need—”

“I do. I want to,” he murmurs, and the way he brushes your foot aside like it weighs nothing sends a wave of heat down your spine. Now both hands are on your thighs, spreading them gently. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

He waits for a sign to stop. You don’t give it.

A smile curls his lips.

“Yeah. Stay quiet and let me enjoy it.”

The hands that were holding your thighs now push your skirt up, the leather bunching around your hips. Then Joel’s large frame lowers, and his mouth finds you.

Your head falls back as his warm tongue slips between your folds with torturous precision, the sound of his spit mixing with your slick making your stomach tighten, and you have to practically bite down on your bottom lip not to moan. He grabs your hips, pulls you toward his mouth, and my God… he really wanted this.

Joel seems to be patiently gathering every drop of your arousal with his tongue, like he’s not in any rush, not until he’s good and ready to start licking your clit, his lips closing around it and sucking, slow and steady.

A moan nearly slips out, but you manage to turn it into a shaky exhale.

Your leg gives a little and you can’t hold yourself up on your elbows anymore, so you lie all the way back, legs splayed around his broad shoulders.

You glance to the side, clutching the sheets beneath you as you start, slowly, to ride his face. The mirror on your vanity catches everything, still cluttered with makeup you’d used while getting ready, and now it reflects the way Joel’s body covers yours, one foot still on the floor, your skirt bunched up, the outline of him pressing hard inside his jeans. You lower your right leg and catch a glimpse of his jaw working as he eats you out, desperate, beard slick with your arousal.

“Good?” you ask sweetly, fingers threading through his silver-streaked hair as your eyes meet. He can’t answer with words, but his eyes speak volumes, and he definitely grips you harder when you teasingly say: “You fifty-somethings really know how to eat pussy.”

Joel’s no exception.

You only pull him up because you want to kiss him again and because you obviously want him out of that fire department t-shirt. He peels it off, revealing a broad chest covered in dark hair that radiates strength.

Joel helps you slide your skirt off, and your mouths meet as you wrap your legs around his hips.

“I probably smell like smoke,” he murmurs.

“Just a little. More like sweat. And it’s delicious.”

Another smile. He’s on a roll.

“You’re insane,” he mutters, lowering his hips. The friction of his cock, denim-rough, grinding against your clit makes you whimper. He catches it. “Feel good?”

You nod. Joel watches you, then dips his hips again, and the seam of his jeans hits just right. You nearly come undone.

“Again,” you whisper.

He listens. Joel makes sure not to hurt you with the zipper, but grinds down hard enough, at just the right angle, to knock the air from your lungs. Your clit throbs under the pressure, the rough rub of the denim, and the solid heat of his cock beneath it only makes it more intense.

He licks two fingers and drags them between your legs just to give you a little extra slick, enough to keep it from turning raw, and keeps rocking into you. You hadn’t planned to come, but you also can’t stop it, not when that feeling keeps rising, rising, until—

It bursts, a sweet sharp rush that spreads from between your legs through every inch of you, and Joel keeps it going, those slow, steady grinds that don’t overwhelm but won’t let the afterglow slip away either.

You place a hand on the waistband of his jeans, gently stopping him.

“You need to fuck me. Now.”

“Urgent?”

“Mhm. So I can come again.”

“You’re so damn direct,” he mutters, clearly amused. Then he leans over and says, “Arms up.”

You obey. He takes off your top, and it’s you who unhooks your bra, now completely naked. Joel watches as he strips off his jeans and boxers, and when he’s bare, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look.

Thank you, God. Uncut.

You look up at him.

“Come here.”

Joel climbs onto your bed, his knees sinking into the soft lilac sheets, and settles between your thighs. Together, you shift higher up the bed until your head rests on the lone pillow left on the mattress.

“Might come too fast,” he warns, and you believe him by the way his cock is rock hard as he guides it to your entrance.

“I don’t mind.”

“Sure you don’t. You’re an expert in old men.”

The head of his cock pushes in with a wet sound that shuts your mouth. You bring your fingers down between your legs, starting to touch yourself again in slow, careful circles as Joel eases into you. He’s gentle, taking his time, eating you up with his eyes, and once he’s fully inside, his body covers yours.

You feel the soft press of his belly against yours, the hair brushing your skin, the weight of him, and it’s enough to stir you back up. Joel draws his hips back and fucks you, and the sound that escapes your mouth is nearly inhuman. Your eyes fly open, meeting Joel’s startled ones, and before either of you can react, his big hand covers your mouth.

“Quiet,” he says, then thrusts again.

You grip his wrist with both hands and wrap your legs around his hips, taking the rough, perfect rhythm of his thrusts — thankfully quiet, the bed doesn’t creak — as his thick cock drives deep into you, raw and goddamn delicious. Joel presses his hand firmer against your mouth to muffle you and clenches his jaw. The trimmed hair at his groin drags over your clit with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass, and your eyes squeeze shut. You don’t even have the strength to keep touching yourself.

Joel goes again, once, twice, three times.

“Fuck,” Joel breathes, voice rough and shocked, sweat trickling down his neck. You feel a pulse inside you and then a warm rush spreading. “Fuck, fuck… I was supposed to pull out and—”

“It’s fine. Really,” because it is. You’ve never understood the drama around guys coming too fast. To you, it’s a compliment, as long as you’re properly taken care of. You repeat it, not wanting the afterglow to turn tense for him. “It’s okay.”

You pull him close and press a soft kiss to his lips, your fingers running through the softer strands at the nape of his neck.

“I had a vasectomy,” he confesses suddenly, lips still against yours, like the thought just occurred to him and he needed to reassure you.

“Great. I’ve got an IUD. Though we probably should’ve talked about this before, huh?” your hands slide down his sweaty shoulders. “Think you can get hard again?”

“Give me a minute.”

“Okay. Pull out.”

Joel shifts back, kneeling between your legs and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock as he slips out of you. You watch his softening length, slick with both of you, and wonder for a second why the hell you like that image so much. And even more… why the feeling of him dripping out of you turns you on.

“Sit there,” you tell him, nodding toward the headboard.

Silently, like a good student, he does exactly what you asked, leaning back against the headboard, his cock now fully soft resting on his thigh.

You crawl over on your knees, slipping between his legs to straddle his right thigh that feels solid under you, the thick hair tickling the insides of your thighs.

“How sensitive are you right now?” you ask, dragging a finger slowly along his cock, the head still tucked away. Joel jerks his hips back, pulling away from the touch. You lift your hand and arch a brow. “Okay. Got it. Very. I could try sucking you hard again.”

“Suck a soft dick?”

“Why not? I wouldn’t mind.”

“Alright. But I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

You rest your arms on his shoulders and lean in. “Okay. I respect that.”

Joel gives you that look, the one older people always get when they’re a little impatient with your ideas or mouth, but you know it’s not about you. He seems like the kind of man who grumbles about everything. Besides, the impatience doesn’t match the way his hands move across your back, soft and slow, up and down.

You say, “I was gonna learn pool just so I could play with you tonight.”

“Yeah? You learn anything?”

You pull back just enough to lift your hands. With your left, you pretend to grip a cue, and with your right, your thumb and index finger make a ring.

“Now I know how to hold a pool stick.”

Joel’s lips tug into a half-smile.

“You’re left-handed,” he notes, and you lower your hands again, nodding. His grip returns to your hips. “Well done. You should’ve come, by the way. I might’ve let you win.”

“You’d never let me win.”

“I’m softer than I look. And,” he cuts himself off when he notices your smirk, “if you make a joke about my soft dick, I swear I’ll have your name on a wanted poster by tomorrow.”

“I don’t get why it bugs you so much. Come on.”

You say that just before leaning in to press your lips to the pulse at his neck. Joel tilts his head slightly, giving you space, and you pepper kisses there, then across his shoulder. You press your chest to his, and his hands grip you tighter.

“Bet the single women in this town chase you down,” you murmur, arms around his neck. “And… the married ones too?”

“No comment.”

“Austin’s most wanted bachelor.”

“The divorcé,” he corrects.

Oh? You pull your mouth away from his neck.

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Good. Tomb’s been sealed.”

He laughs against your mouth when you kiss him, but soon cups your face to kiss you properly, exactly the way you’re asking, even if you’re not saying a word. His kisses are so addictive, it’s strange to you. There’s something about Joel that turns a kiss into full-body contact. He kisses and touches you, strokes your cheek, your back, pays attention to what you need.

And he reads you well, because his hand slips between your legs.

“Lift up a little,” he says, and you rise onto your knees, no longer sitting on his thigh. His fingers slide between your folds, gathering the slick there. Joel lets out a low grunt, and you watch the way his cock gives a tiny twitch. “Let me eat you out again.”

Ah. Yes. But actually…

“Can I try something else?” you ask.

That’s how Joel, with lips slightly parted, ends up watching as you settle back down on his thigh, right over the thickest part, your legs spread wide.

You almost feel shy the first time you grind up against his thigh with his eyes on you. Your whole body shivers, breath catching in your throat, and you steady yourself with your hands on him. You’re so wet, from yourself and from him, that the movement is easy. Heavenly. The hair on his thigh adds just the right amount of friction on your clit, and it nearly sends you reeling.

“You like that?” he asks, genuinely curious, and you, dry-mouthed, nod your head. You grind again. Whimper.

“Been neglecting this pussy, huh?”

You shake your head. Joel touches your body, running his hands along your sides, gripping your waist. The next time you grind down, he helps, his biceps flexing, guiding your rhythm. Forward. Back. The muscle of his thigh tensing under you, his skin slick with your wetness.

He watches you, sees how close you are and how hard you’re biting your lip to keep quiet. Immediately, his thumb presses to your bottom lip, freeing it from your teeth, and he slips it into your mouth. You meet his gaze as you suck it in, hands clutching his arm, hips faltering in the next few rolls.

When you come, Joel lays you back on the bed, spreads your legs, and slides back inside. He’s not fully hard, but it doesn’t matter because he fits, thick and slow, and the way he stretches you prolongs your orgasm so sweetly it nearly breaks you apart.

You feel him stiffening more with each thrust, and as he grows harder, he goes deeper.

“Fucking perfect,” he breathes into your ear, biting your neck. “You’re driving me outta my mind.”

Your smile wavers when, after a few more thrusts, he slips out and lies beside you, then shifts you onto your side and pulls you back against his chest. He drapes an arm over your chest, grips your thigh with the other, lifts it over his hip, and slides into you again. His movements pin you, keeping you from doing anything but taking it when his fingers find your clit again, even oversensitive as it is.

Your whole body shakes.

“Joel—”

“Come on, baby. I know you’ve got one more in you.”

You try to jerk your hips away from his fingers as he rubs harder, faster, but there’s nowhere to go, and Joel doesn’t relent. He holds your thigh, keeps you open for him, slowing his thrusts just enough to drag it out. You grab the arm draped over your chest, twist your hips, and it’s almost too much.

Almost.

Because right before it crosses the line, you come. And then you go limp.

“Can I keep going?” he asks. “Want me to pull out?”

“No. Just… stay off my clit.”

The kiss he presses to your damp temple sounds like an “okay.”

You reach back, fingers slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and feel his ragged breaths against your neck as he keeps moving inside you. His next orgasm takes longer, but somehow it still only lasts a few seconds, and leaves you leaking all over again.

When it’s over, your ears are ringing, his body is hot behind you, and your heart won’t stop pounding.

Goddamn.

Thanks for your service, Chief.

You can’t stop staring at the top-left corner of the peach pie.

It’s not broken, exactly. The crust in that corner just sank a little lower than the rest, and it’s driving you nuts. You rotate the pie dish so the pristine edge faces front, hiding the flaw.

“Pie?” you offer with a smile as sweet as the amarena syrup your mom made, holding out a slice to the father and two sons approaching your stand.

Today is the neighborhood charity fair where your parents live. It happens every six months in the town square and has been around for maybe a decade. The goal is to raise funds for local nonprofits. Neighbors donate pies, sandwiches, roasted meats, inflatable toys for the kids. The whole thing.

When you were fifteen and a painfully annoying teenager, you thought wearing an apron and handing out pie was humiliating. Ugh, mom. Charity is soooo lame.

Ten years later, here you are: uneasy, borderline neurotic because the crust of the pie you helped bake has a deformed corner.

The father and sons leave with their slices in little styrofoam containers and colorful forks. You glance around.

Your mom is helping out at one of the roast beef sandwich booths since someone called in sick last night. Your dad’s at his own stand, trying to sell fishing gear, though bamboo hooks don’t exactly draw crowds.

Farther down the square, you spot the fire truck. Your heart does a little skip, part nerves, part excitement. The fire department’s on site for safety, at least for the first couple hours. But you haven’t seen Joel yet.

“Any pie here sweeter than you?”

You turn toward the front of your booth and find the fireman who looks like a knockoff Bradley Bradshaw. He’s wearing an Austin Fire Department tee, aviator shades, and a grin that’s way too… youthful.

Still, you smile back.

“Definitely. I’m pretty sure the pie also knows the number for the AFD’s misconduct hotline.”

“Kidding.”

“And because of that joke,” you say, grabbing three styrofoam containers, “you’re buying three slices to support the cause.”

He doesn’t even protest. Quietly, he waits as you cut the slices and hands you the money. You thank him with a sugar-sweet smile and a blown kiss.

Once he walks away, your eyes sweep the square again. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

And there’s the fire, staring at you from across the plaza, arms crossed under the shade of a tree. Joel’s in the same black Austin Fire Department tee, and you see his eyes dip briefly to read the name stitched onto your pink apron.

The Sweetest Bite.

That barely-there smile curves his lips.

You grab a styrofoam plate, cut a generous slice of pie, and pull five bucks from the back pocket of your denim shorts, dropping the bill into the flower-covered tip jar your mom set up.

Then you toss the apron onto the counter and ask your dad to watch the stand for a few minutes.

Joel doesn’t even see you approaching. He’s surrounded by three women asking what it’s like “to be responsible for a city like Austin.”

“Such a hard-working man,” you say, slipping in between two of them to hold out the pie. “Fresh, warm cream pie. A little thank-you for protecting the city.”

Joel looks from the pie to you. Your smile grows even sweeter. When he takes it, the women scatter.

“You got an endless supply of short shorts like that?” he asks, not even pretending to start eating. His eyes stay on the pie. “Cream pie.”

“My favorite,” you reply. And, about the shorts: “It’s summer in Texas.”

“Right,” he says to both.

You glance around. No one’s near. One of the other firefighters is tossing rings at a carnival booth.

“You should come to the barbecue at my place after the fair. Tommy’s going and I can ask him to invite you.”

“I’m not going’ to your house.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not buddying up to your parents. You’re out of your mind?”

“I don’t want you to be friends with them. I want you to sneak up to my room when no one’s looking.”

“No,” he says flatly, like the conversation’s over.

A few hours later, that victorious little grin creeps across your lips as you see Tommy walk through the back gate of your house.