Joel Fic - Tumblr Posts
Omg this has to be one of my new favorites. Like the roller coaster of emotions I’m feeling is crazy. Love the dynamic between Joel and reader. Can’t wait to see what happens next. 💜
fourth of july
3.9k / dbf!joel x f!reader
warnings: 18+, minors dni. dbf!joel, no outbreak, age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his 40s), dominant joel, oral sex (m receiving), little bit of praise kink good girl action iykyk
a/n: done with finals so we are back to the important things (writing joel smut)...going through a dbf!joel phase so lmk if we like this/if we want more parts. i have some ideas for a lil series if people are into this one. love u bye <3
“What the hell are you thinkin’?” he snarls. His fist is still wrapped around your underwear. You can see the fabric peeking out between his fingers. Your face goes hot. “I don’t…I thought—” “What did you think?” he says, accent rough. “You thought takin’ off your panties —” he opens his fist and hooks a finger through the band, letting them dangle — “and handin’ ‘em to me at a party was a good idea?”
It’s good to be back in Texas. Back home. You’re only here for a few months, in that awkward, post-grad summer between college and real-life - but it’s nice. Good to see your dad, and your friends, and…Joel.
You’ve known him since you were a kid. He’s your dad’s best friend. You shouldn’t be nervous to see him - you see him every summer, every Christmas, every family get-together. But this time feels different. The past few times have felt different, if you’re being honest. He’s…
No. He’s Joel. He taught you how to swim. Showed you how to ride a bike. He’s got an ex-wife, and a daughter, and twenty years on you. But still. Still.
You’ve only been home for a few days, but you still haven’t seen him. He makes himself scarce. Always at work, or busy with Sarah, or bailing Tommy out of jail. It’s probably better that way, anyway. The last thing you need is that fucking Southern drawl in your ear every day.
But you’ll see him today. Today it’s inevitable. The annual Fourth of July barbecue, organized by your dad and hosted by Joel. They’ve modified the theme this year - Fourth of July meets Graduation! - to celebrate you. The guest of honor.
So, yeah. You’re nervous. You’re really fucking nervous. You take an hour to pick out a sundress, and if you pick a matching set of underwear to go beneath it - black, lace, expensive - it’s definitely not because of him.
The walk across the street to Joel’s is torture. You drag your feet the whole way, mute alongside your father. He fills the silence with inane chatter. Something about Joel’s contracting business, you think. You follow him to Joel’s front door, and through the foyer, and out to the back yard - and there he is. Joel Miller, leaning heavily against his fence with a beer in one hand. A wallflower at his own party.
He perks up when you approach. Tips his beer in easy greeting.
“Hey, kid. Long time no see.”
You swallow. “Yeah. Long time no see.”
“College graduate,” he muses. “Too smart for me now.”
“Hardly.”
“What’d you study, anyway?”
You eye him. “You actually wanna know? Or you just making conversation?”
The corner of his lip quirks. “Humor me.”
“English. Lit. You know, Jane Austen. Brontë sisters. That kinda thing.”
“Mm.” He looks amused. He takes a long sip of beer and you watch him swallow. “Bet you could teach me a thing or two. Last book I read was the Givin’ Tree.”
You stare at him.
“Sarah’s favorite,” he elaborates.
You laugh, then. “Sure.”
He eyes you. Keeps drinking. You shift a little in the silence, picking at the peeling wood along his fence.
“Can I have a sip?”
He pauses with the bottle halfway to his lips. His brow lifts. But he hands the bottle over, fingers brushing yours when you reach out to grab it.
“Keep forgettin’ you’re old enough to drink,” he says.
You take a sip in response. He watches you closely, eyes twinkling.
He’s almost smiling. Almost. It fades when he steals a glance over your shoulder. “You got company,” he says, snatching the beer back from your hand.
You turn in time to see Carter Thomas loping towards you. Twenty-something, next-door neighbor, one-time boyfriend. And perpetually, persistently, in love with you. You have enough time to sigh before he approaches.
“Hey,” he says. He turns to Joel. “Mind if I steal her?”
Joel’s jaw ticks. “No,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “‘Course not. Don’t have too much fun.”
He pushes himself from the fence. You watch him go with a sinking heart. He turns to watch you over his shoulder, and you could swear there’s something in his eyes — something — and then he blinks, and turns away, and it’s gone. You’re stuck with Carter Thomas.
“—last semester at Syracuse,” he’s saying, waving his hands for emphasis. “You know how it is.”
You nod absently. Your eyes wander, searching aimlessly for Joel as he disappears back into the crowd. You catch a flash of flannel and smile softly.
“Are you even listening?” Carter whines. He sounds annoyed. He snaps his fingers — like, actually snaps — and your eyes flick back to him. “Like, you can’t even pretend to be interested? God. I text you, I call you, you can’t even be bothered to respond, and now you can’t even listen to a word I say—”
You feel Joel before you see him. At your side again, slinking there like a shadow, all brooding, quiet, six-foot something of him.
“There a problem?” he asks, softly.
“No,” Carter says, quickly. “We’re just talking.”
“Sounds more like you’re yellin’.”
Carter turns, exasperated. “Look, we’re fine,” he says. “Just — it’s really not your business.”
“My house,” Joel says, quietly. “Think that makes it my business.” He looks at you. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” You glare at Carter. “He was just leaving.”
Carter blinks. He looks between you and Joel in disbelief. “Fine,” he huffs, putting his palms to the air. “Nice to see you.”
Joel grunts in response. He watches him go, standing silent at your side. You turn to face him after a brief moment.
“Thanks for that.” You shrug. “He can’t take a hint.”
Joel grunts again. Not much for talking, you remember. Seems to speak less and less with each passing year.
But then he surprises you.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say, a little caught off guard. “Fine. He’s harmless. Just annoying.”
He nods. “Sure. You wanna…you wanna talk about it?”
You stare.
“You want to talk about something?”
He laughs at that. A short, sharp chuckle. “Not particularly. Good excuse to get away from this.” He gestures with his beer to the party; to the people milling through his yard.
“You hosted.”
“Yeah, well. 'S your dad’s thing. I just have the grill.”
You shake your head, laughing a little. “Whatever. I could use a break, too. Lead the way.”
He weaves his way through the yard, stopping to pluck two beers from a cooler. You follow him inside, through the kitchen and up the stairs and down a quiet hallway.
“Through here,” he says, ducking into the guest bathroom.
“The … bathroom.”
“You’re impatient, y'know?”
He moves to the back of the bathroom, to a window there. He puts his shoulder into the pane and nudges it open, letting cool air wash the room. And then he bends, grumbling softly as he climbs through the open window and steps onto the roof.
You pause for a minute before you follow. He’s still grumbling when you make it onto the roof, catching your balance on the ledge. You take a cautious seat and let your legs dangle over the eave.
“Gettin’ too old for this,” he mutters.
You laugh, watching as he stumbles over to join you. The guests look smaller from up here. Distant. The sun slips beneath the roof and stains the sky purple.
He makes it to your side and drops down next to you with a sigh. He cracks both beers open and passes you one.
“I hate parties,” you blurt, after a moment’s silence.
He hums appreciatively. “Sure.”
More silence. He takes an excruciatingly long sip.
“Could kill him for you, if ya want,” he says, casually. “That Carter kid. Just say the word.”
Your head whips to him. A laugh bubbles up from your throat, and his lip quirks.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nods. “I got you covered,” he says. Playful, but…you get the sense he’s not entirely teasing. “Any boys give you a hard time, you send ‘em my way.”
You laugh again. Shake your head.
“So,” he says. “Carter. Anyone else I gotta watch out for?”
“Since when are you interested in my love life?”
He puts the bottle to his lips. “It’s called makin’ conversation,” he says.
You roll your eyes. Ignore the way your pulse quickens at the question.
“No one at school, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He can read your tone. It’s not exactly subtle. “So there is someone,” he says.
“It’s nothing.” You glance away from him. You swing your feet and watch the tips of your shoes.
“You told him how you feel?”
“No.”
“No,” Joel repeats. He sounds amused. “Why not?”
“It’s complicated,” you say, a little sharper than you intend. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just…”
“Ok. Alright.” He hoists his hands in mock surrender. But there’s something else in his eyes - something darker. It’s gone before he can blink.
“How’s my dad?” you ask. It’s a terrible attempt at a tone-shift, but he lets it go. He shrugs, lifting his bottle.
“Y'know. He’s alright. Think he misses havin’ you around.”
Your heart tugs a little. “Yeah. I miss him too. Feel kinda bad, leaving him all alone here.”
Joel nudges your leg with his. “Don’t worry about him,” he says. “I make sure he does alright.”
You nod. It’s suddenly painfully obvious how close he is - how his shoulder brushes yours; how his bottle clinks yours when he shifts.
“We should probably go back down,” you say. “You’re the host. And I’m the...guest of honor, or something. We can’t both be missing.”
His gaze lingers half a second longer.
“No,” he agrees. He stands, brushing off his jeans, and offers you his hand.
You take it. He helps you up and your hand stays in his for a split-second longer than it should. Just long enough for your breath to catch.
He drops his hand. Clears his throat. “After you,” he says, motioning back through the window. He follows after you, closing it shut, and again you find yourselves in a rapidly-thickening moment of silence — this time in the confines of his tiny guest bathroom.
“Um, I think —” You blink. “I’m just gonna freshen up in here, if that’s cool. I can meet you back downstairs.”
“Oh. Sure. ‘Course.” He shuffles past you to the door. He pauses before he lets it close, peeking back in at you with one hand on the handle.
“You look real pretty tonight,” he says. “In case I didn’t say. Meant to tell you earlier.”
You blush. He nods, half to himself, and closes the door.
“Fuck,” you mumble. You stand in front of the mirror, hands braced on the sink as his footsteps recede. Your heart sits at the base of your throat.
You look real pretty tonight.
He’s never called you pretty before. Not ever. You’ve never heard Joel Miller call anything pretty in his life. But, then, maybe it’s a friendly kind of pretty. A fatherly sort of pretty. A you’re still the girl who used to babysit my daughter sort of pretty.
Or maybe not.
An idea starts to form. It’s not a good one. It’s probably a terrible one, actually, but you’re more than a few drinks deep, and something about the way he looked at you - the way he snapped at Carter, the way he led you to the roof - is telling you to do it.
So - fuck it. You do.
You lift the hem of your sundress and work your underwear off. Black. Lace. Somewhere deep in your brain you know you must have worn them for him.
You’re more than a little embarrassed to find they’re already damp. Just the fucking thought of him - just that caramel drawl calling you pretty - and you’re already soaked.
You swear silently, balling the fabric into your fist, and push the door open before you can talk yourself out of this. Out of the bathroom, down the stairs, back into the yard.
You make a beeline for Joel. Your dad stops you, and your heart nearly stops — but you fend him off pretty easily. He’s too drunk to notice the blush on your cheeks, or the fabric stashed in your fist.
You find Joel by the pool, trapped in conversation with his aggressively eager neighbor. Ms. Simmons. You remember her. Recently divorced, forever on the prowl. She’s got her claws sunk into Joel like a botoxed vulture.
She’s laughing loudly — too loudly — when you approach. You get the sense Joel hasn’t said anything that resembles a joke.
“You’re too much,” she coos, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You have to come by sometime. I’ll open a bottle of wine…”
She stops when she sees you at Joel’s side. Her expression sours.
“Sorry,” you say, softly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She opens her mouth to say something. Joel is faster.
“You ain’t interruptin’,” he says. He scoots a little to make room for you, even as Ms. Simmons scowls.
“I was just inviting Joel over for a glass of wine,” she says, eyeing you. “You’re always welcome too, of course. Just as soon as you’re old enough to drink.”
“I’m twenty-three,” you say. You manage a fake smile. You can feel Joel try not to laugh beside you. His hand hangs at his side, brushing yours. “Thanks for the offer, though.”
Ms. Simmons huffs. She’s determined, though - the way half of the women in this town are determined when it comes to Joel Miller - and she doubles down as if you’re a ghost.
You ignore her. You move closer to Joel, almost imperceptibly, but you can tell the way his frame goes rigid that he can feel you. You move your hand to his as Ms. Simmons chatters away. Joel is grunting politely every so often - that quiet, deadly Southern charm - but he goes quiet when he feels your fingers on his. And quieter still when you slip the scrap of black fabric into his palm.
His whole body stiffens. Even Ms.Simmons - oblivious as all hell and three sheets to the wind - can sense the change. She frowns.
“Joel? Are you alright?”
He blinks, hard. His fist tightens on the lace.
“Fine,” he grits. “Would you excuse me a second?”
“Oh.” Her face falls. “Sure.”
You’re not expecting him to move as quickly as he does. You’re also not expecting him to grab you the way he does, his free hand snatching at the back of your dress and yanking you into his chest.
“Bathroom,” he growls, stubble raking your ear. “Two minutes.”
He releases you before you can answer. You watch him stalk past you - past the party - and disappear into the house.
And then you follow.
You barely have to knock. Your knuckles graze the door and it swings open, wide enough for Joel’s hand to drag you inside.
The door slams shut behind you. You stand sandwiched between Joel and the handle.
“What the hell are you thinkin’?” he snarls. His fist is still wrapped around your underwear. You can see the fabric peeking out between his fingers.
Your face goes hot.
“I don’t…I thought—”
“What did you think?” he says, accent rough. “You thought takin’ off your panties —” he opens his fist and hooks a finger through the band, letting them dangle — “and handin’ ‘em to me at a party was a good idea?”
You swallow.
“You know what your dad’d do to me if he saw this?” he hisses. “What he’d do to you?”
“Kill us both,” you offer, unhelpfully.
He lifts a brow. Your underwear dangles from his middle finger.
“Damn right, kill us both.”
“So don’t tell,” you say, softly. It’s a hell of a lot bolder than you feel.
He looses a low whistle. You can’t tell if he’s amused, or pissed, or…something else.
“You used to be a good girl,” he says, and now his voice is dangerous. Low, silken, Southern. “What the hell happened?”
“Don’t know.” Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that he’s stepped closer. A lot closer. “Grew up, I guess.”
“I guess,” he echoes.
He lifts his free hand to your face. Your breath catches. You’re halfway convinced he’ll kiss you — but then he grabs your jaw, holding it between rough fingers — and tilts your face to his.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” he growls.
You shake your head, as best you can with his hand on your jaw.
“Whatever you want,” you manage.
“Whatever I want,” he repeats. His eyes are black, his lips inches from yours. You can taste whiskey on his breath. “And you? What am I s'posed to do with you?”
You stare at him. His fingers slacken on your jaw, slipping lower, wrapping loosely around your throat.
“Lemme guess,” he mutters. “Whatever I want?”
You swallow. Nod, slowly.
He huffs.
“Alright,” he murmurs. His voice is velvet. His hand squeezes your throat. “Get on your knees.”
You look at him, a little surprised. His expression is almost unreadable.
“Anythin’ I want, right?” He cocks his head. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
You don’t. You kneel on the ground, knees digging into the tile. It’ll leave a mark, you’re sure. You couldn’t care less. You put your hands on his belt and he doesn’t stop you. Your panties hang from his finger, still, dragging by your cheek as you work his belt free and tug his jeans past his hips.
“You do this for all the boys?” he taunts. His drawl is thicker, now, slipping to a slur as his self-control wanes.
You shake your head. “No,” you mumble.
“No,” he agrees. His eyes are dark.
You work his boxers down and his cock springs free. You let out a small sound at the sight.
“Quiet,” he clips. He cocks a head toward the window, where the sounds of the party filter through. “Unless you wanna give ‘em a show.”
You shut up. He moves his free hand to the back of your head and wraps his fingers in your hair, pushing you into his cock. Your mouth parts, gasping slightly as his tip drags past your lips.
It’s the first reaction you’ve pulled from him. A chink in brooding armor. A small, quiet grunt as he slides into your mouth.
You smile a little, lips curving around his cock. He tightens his grip in your hair and pulls you closer, wiping your smile clean, making you choke.
“Fuck,” you breathe, when his grip finally slackens. You take a breath, panting softly. His cock is slick with your saliva.
“You ain’t finished.”
He doesn’t grab you this time. He waits for you to move; waits for you to shuffle closer, and brace your hands on his thighs, and take him in your mouth. Waits for you to set the pace.
You can feel him tremble when you move faster, head bobbing, fingers digging at his hips. His hand stretches, steadying himself on the lip of the counter.
“Good?” you murmur. You drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his cock. He flinches.
“Thought I told you—” he swears, knuckles tight on the sink, “—quiet.”
You smile again. He’s losing control. You can tell — the way his hips twitch, the way his cock jumps in your mouth.
“Don’t always listen,” you breathe, placing a kiss to his tip.
“Fuck,” he mutters. His head tilts back. His fist balls around your panties. “That’s good, sweetheart. Just like that. Good—god damn — good girl.”
You swirl your tongue along the head of his cock. His hips buck into your mouth.
“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease,” he growls.
You grin. You hum a soft apology around his cock and take him deeper, ignoring the throb in your knees.
He shudders. His hand flies off of the counter and buries again in your hair.
“Where you want it?” he breathes. His eyes are dark, blown black with lust. His drawl drips down your skin and settles in between your legs.
You draw back long enough to speak. Those same three words.
“Whatever you want,” you mumble.
That drives him fucking crazy. You drive him fucking crazy. His hand tangles in your hair and he fucks your mouth, swearing softly, your own soaked panties crumped in his other hand.
And then his hips jerk, and his half-silent swears spill broken from his mouth. He cums hard, clutching at your hair.
“Fuck,” he pants. You stare up at him, holding him on your tongue, swallowing slowly as he watches. “Good girl, baby. Fuck.”
His praise makes you blush. You sit back on your haunches and watch as he drags his boxers back up, then his jeans, then his belt. He fastens the buckle and looks down at you, still on your knees. He slides your panties into his back pocket and offers you his hand for the second time that night.
You take it and stand, a little shaky. Joel watches you. That impenetrable look is back.
You’re not sure what to say. You’re pretty are you should say something. But you’re spared — for better or worse — by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Loud footsteps. Close footsteps. Footsteps that stop, suddenly, and darken the light under the bathroom door.
Joel moves faster than you. He grabs you, pressing his chest to your back, and claps a palm across your mouth.
The footsteps shuffle, a little uncertain. A knock follows at the door.
“Hello?”
Your heart drops. You slacken in Joel’s grip.
You know that voice. You both do.
Your dad.
“Hello?” he repeats. “Someone in there?”
You squirm. Joel’s hand tightens on your mouth.
“Yeah, sorry,” he calls. “Gimme a sec.”
“Joel?” You can hear your dad chuckle. He sounds drunk. “You seen my kid anywhere?”
You mumble into Joel’s palm. He digs his fingers into your cheek, chest tight against your back.
“Don’t think so,” he calls back.
Your dad sighs. “Saw her talkin’ to that Carter boy…” he mutters. “Kid is bad news.” He pauses. “You okay in there?”
You giggle. You can’t help it. Joel’s arm flexes by your head.
“Fine,” he says, shortly. “Go ahead and use the bathroom downstairs. I need a minute.”
Your dad pauses again. You stifle a laugh, muffled in Joel’s palm.
“Okay,” your dad says, finally. “Let me know if you see my damn daughter.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
His footsteps fade. Joel waits until he’s doubly sure he’s gone to release you.
“Really?” he scowls, when he sees your grin.
“Need a minute,” you imitate him, affecting his drawl. You laugh. “You’re a bad liar.”
“Like hell I am. Saved your ass.” He nods at the door. “Get out of here,” he says.
When you don’t move, he puts a hand on the small of your back and pushes you to the door. “Out. Now. ‘Less you wanna explain this.”
“Not particularly.”
“Didn’t think so.” He cracks the door for you, sweeping the hallway before ushering out out.
You turn back to him before he can shut the door.
“I’m here all summer, you know.”
An almost-smile ghosts his lips.
“You got a death-wish, or somethin’?”
You shrug. “Maybe.”
“Mm.” He huffs. He leans in, desperately close, eyes flicking over your shoulder to ensure you’re alone. “Make sure to fuck you properly next time, if you want it that bad.”
Then he draws back, and that narrowed gaze is back. He yanks the door shut and leaves you alone in the hall.
You take a breath and start downstairs, smoothing your dress down your thighs.
You wonder if that was a promise.
And later — when you make it home, and climb into bed, and slip your hand between your legs —
You hope it was.
😭 ✨🤌🏽
fourth of july
pairing: joel x f!reader
rating: 18+, minors dni
warnings: dbf!joel, no outbreak, age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his 40s), dominant joel, oral sex (m receiving), little bit of praise kink good girl action iykyk
a/n: done with finals so we are back to the important things (writing joel smut)...going through a dbf!joel phase so lmk if we like this/if we want more parts. i have some ideas for a lil series if people are into this one. love u bye <3
It’s good to be back in Texas. Back home. You’re only here for a few months, in that awkward, post-grad summer between college and real-life - but it’s nice. Good to see your dad, and your friends, and…Joel.
You’ve known him since you were a kid. He’s your dad’s best friend. You shouldn’t be nervous to see him - you see him every summer, every Christmas, every family get-together. But this time feels different. The past few times have felt different, if you’re being honest. He’s…
No. He’s Joel. He taught you how to swim. Showed you how to ride a bike. He’s got an ex-wife, and a daughter, and twenty years on you. But still. Still.
You’ve only been home for a few days, but you still haven’t seen him. He makes himself scarce. Always at work, or busy with Sarah, or bailing Tommy out of jail. It’s probably better that way, anyway. The last thing you need is that fucking Southern drawl in your ear every day.
But you’ll see him today. Today it’s inevitable. The annual Fourth of July barbecue, organized by your dad and hosted by Joel. They’ve modified the theme this year - Fourth of July meets Graduation! - to celebrate you. The guest of honor.
So, yeah. You’re nervous. You’re really fucking nervous. You take an hour to pick out a sundress, and if you pick a matching set of underwear to go beneath it - black, lace, expensive - it’s definitely not because of him.
The walk across the street to Joel’s is torture. You drag your feet the whole way, mute alongside your father. He fills the silence with inane chatter. Something about Joel’s contracting business, you think. You follow him to Joel’s front door, and through the foyer, and out to the back yard - and there he is. Joel Miller, leaning heavily against his fence with a beer in one hand. A wallflower at his own party.
He perks up when you approach. Tips his beer in easy greeting.
“Hey, kid. Long time no see.”
You swallow. “Yeah. Long time no see.”
“College graduate,” he muses. “Too smart for me now.”
“Hardly.”
“What’d you study, anyway?”
You eye him. “You actually wanna know? Or you just making conversation?”
The corner of his lip quirks. “Humor me.”
“English. Lit. You know, Jane Austen. Brontë sisters. That kinda thing.”
“Mm.” He looks amused. He takes a long sip of beer and you watch him swallow. “Bet you could teach me a thing or two. Last book I read was the Givin’ Tree.”
You stare at him.
“Sarah’s favorite,” he elaborates.
You laugh, then. “Sure.”
He eyes you. Keeps drinking. You shift a little in the silence, picking at the peeling wood along his fence.
“Can I have a sip?”
He pauses with the bottle halfway to his lips. His brow lifts. But he hands the bottle over, fingers brushing yours when you reach out to grab it.
“Keep forgettin’ you’re old enough to drink,” he says.
You take a sip in response. He watches you closely, eyes twinkling.
He’s almost smiling. Almost. It fades when he steals a glance over your shoulder. “You got company,” he says, snatching the beer back from your hand.
You turn in time to see Carter Thomas loping towards you. Twenty-something, next-door neighbor, one-time boyfriend. And perpetually, persistently, in love with you. You have enough time to sigh before he approaches.
“Hey,” he says. He turns to Joel. “Mind if I steal her?”
Joel’s jaw ticks. “No,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “‘Course not. Don’t have too much fun.”
He pushes himself from the fence. You watch him go with a sinking heart. He turns to watch you over his shoulder, and you could swear there’s something in his eyes — something — and then he blinks, and turns away, and it’s gone. You’re stuck with Carter Thomas.
“—last semester at Syracuse,” he’s saying, waving his hands for emphasis. “You know how it is.”
You nod absently. Your eyes wander, searching aimlessly for Joel as he disappears back into the crowd. You catch a flash of flannel and smile softly.
“Are you even listening?” Carter whines. He sounds annoyed. He snaps his fingers — like, actually snaps — and your eyes flick back to him. “Like, you can’t even pretend to be interested? God. I text you, I call you, you can’t even be bothered to respond, and now you can’t even listen to a word I say—”
You feel Joel before you see him. At your side again, slinking there like a shadow, all brooding, quiet, six-foot something of him.
“There a problem?” he asks, softly.
“No,” Carter says, quickly. “We’re just talking.”
“Sounds more like you’re yellin’.”
Carter turns, exasperated. “Look, we’re fine,” he says. “Just — it’s really not your business.”
“It’s my house,” Joel says, quietly. “Think that makes it my business.” He looks at you. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” You glare at Carter. “He was just leaving.”
Carter blinks. He looks between you and Joel in disbelief. “Fine,” he huffs, putting his palms to the air. “Nice to see you.”
Joel grunts in response. He watches him go, standing silent at your side. You turn to face him after a brief moment.
“Thanks for that.” You shrug. “He can’t take a hint.”
Joel grunts again. Not much for talking, you remember. Seems to speak less and less with each passing year.
But then he surprises you.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say, a little caught off guard. “Fine. He’s harmless. Just annoying.”
He nods. “Sure. You wanna…you wanna talk about it?”
You stare.
“You want to talk about something?”
He laughs at that. A short, sharp chuckle. “Not particularly. Good excuse to get away from this.” He gestures with his beer to the party; to the people milling through his yard.
“You hosted.”
“Yeah, well. It’s your dad’s thing. I just have the grill.”
You shake your head, laughing a little. “Whatever. I could use a break, too. Lead the way.”
He weaves his way through the yard, stopping to pluck two beers from a cooler. You follow him inside, through the kitchen and up the stairs and down a quiet hallway.
“Through here,” he says, ducking into the guest bathroom.
“The … bathroom.”
“You’re impatient, you know?”
He moves to the back of the bathroom, to a window there. He puts his shoulder into the pane and nudges it open, letting cool air wash the room. And then he bends, grumbling softly as he climbs through the open window and steps onto the roof.
You pause for a minute before you follow. He’s still grumbling when you make it onto the roof, catching your balance on the ledge. You take a cautious seat and let your legs dangle over the eave.
“Gettin’ too old for this,” he mutters.
You laugh, watching as he stumbles over to join you. The guests look smaller from up here. Distant. The sun slips beneath the roof and stains the sky purple.
He makes it to your side and drops down next to you with a sigh. He cracks both beers open and passes you one.
“I hate parties,” you blurt, after a moment’s silence.
He hums appreciatively. “Sure.”
More silence. He takes an excruciatingly long sip.
“I could kill him for you, if ya want,” he says, casually. “That Carter kid. Just say the word.”
Your head whips to him. A laugh bubbles up from your throat, and his lip quirks.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nods. “I got you covered,” he says. Playful, but…you get the sense he’s not entirely teasing. “Any boys give you a hard time, you send ‘em my way.”
You laugh again. Shake your head.
“So,” he says. “Carter. Anyone else I gotta watch out for?”
“Since when are you interested in my love life?”
He puts the bottle to his lips. “It’s called makin’ conversation,” he says.
You roll your eyes. Ignore the way your pulse quickens at the question.
“No one at school, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He can read your tone. It’s not exactly subtle. “So there is someone,” he says.
“It’s nothing.” You glance away from him. You swing your feet and watch the tips of your shoes.
“You told him how you feel?”
“No.”
“No,” Joel repeats. He sounds amused. “Why not?”
“It’s complicated,” you say, a little sharper than you intend. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just…”
“OK. Alright.” He hoists his hands in mock surrender. But there’s something else in his eyes - something darker. It’s gone before he can blink.
“How’s my dad?” you ask. It’s a terrible attempt at a tone-shift, but he lets it go. He shrugs, lifting his bottle.
“You know. He’s alright. Think he misses havin’ you around.”
Your heart tugs a little. “Yeah. I miss him too. Feel kinda bad, leaving him all alone here.”
Joel nudges your leg with his. “Don’t worry about him,” he says. “I make sure he does alright.”
You nod. It’s suddenly painfully obvious how close he is - how his shoulder brushes yours; how his bottle clinks yours when he shifts.
“We should probably go back down,” you say. “You’re the host. And I’m the guest of honor, or something. We can’t both be missing.”
His gaze lingers half a second longer.
“No,” he agrees. He stands, brushing off his jeans, and offers you his hand.
You take it. He helps you up and your hand stays in his for a split-second longer than it should. Just long enough for your breath to catch.
He drops his hand. Clears his throat. “After you,” he says, motioning back through the window. He follows after you, closing it shut, and again you find yourselves in a rapidly-thickening moment of silence — this time in the confines of his tiny guest bathroom.
“Um, I think —” You blink. “I’m just gonna freshen up in here, if that’s cool. I can meet you back downstairs.”
“Oh. Sure. ‘Course.” He shuffles past you to the door. He pauses before he lets it close, peeking back in at you with one hand on the handle.
“You look real pretty tonight,” he says. “In case I didn’t say. Meant to tell you earlier.”
You blush. He nods, half to himself, and closes the door.
“Fuck,” you mumble. You stand in front of the mirror, hands braced on the sink as his footsteps recede. Your heart sits at the base of your throat.
You look real pretty tonight.
He’s never called you pretty before. Not ever. You’ve never heard Joel Miller call anything pretty in his life. But, then, maybe it’s a friendly kind of pretty. A fatherly sort of pretty. A you’re still the girl who used to babysit my daughter sort of pretty.
Or maybe not.
An idea starts to form. It’s not a good one. It’s probably a terrible one, actually, but you’re more than a few drinks deep, and something about the way he looked at you - the way he snapped at Carter, the way he led you to the roof - is telling you to do it.
So - fuck it. You do.
You lift the hem of your sundress and work your underwear off. Black. Lace. Somewhere deep in your brain you know you must have worn them for him.
You’re more than a little embarrassed to find they’re already damp. Just the fucking thought of him - just that caramel drawl calling you pretty - and you’re already soaked.
You swear silently, balling the fabric into your fist, and push the door open before you can talk yourself out of this. Out of the bathroom, down the stairs, back into the yard.
You make a beeline for Joel. Your dad stops you, and your heart nearly stops — but you fend him off pretty easily. He’s too drunk to notice the blush on your cheeks, or the fabric stashed in your fist.
You find Joel by the pool, trapped in conversation with his aggressively eager neighbor. Ms. Simmons. You remember her. Recently divorced, forever on the prowl. She’s got her claws sunk into Joel like a botoxed vulture.
She’s laughing loudly — too loudly — when you approach. You get the sense Joel hasn’t said anything that resembles a joke.
“You’re too much,” she coos, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You have to come by sometime. I’ll open a bottle of wine…”
She stops when she sees you at Joel’s side. Her expression sours.
“Sorry,” you say, softly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She opens her mouth to say something. Joel is faster.
“You ain’t interruptin’,” he says. He scoots a little to make room for you, even as Ms. Simmons scowls.
“I was just inviting Joel over for a glass of wine,” she says, eyeing you. “You’re always welcome too, of course. Just as soon as you’re old enough to drink.”
“I’m twenty-three,” you say. You manage a fake smile. You can feel Joel try not to laugh beside you. His hand hangs at his side, brushing yours. “Thanks for the offer, though.”
Ms. Simmons huffs. She’s determined, though - the way half of the women in this town are determined when it comes to Joel Miller - and she doubles down as if you’re a ghost.
You ignore her. You move closer to Joel, almost imperceptibly, but you can tell the way his frame goes rigid that he can feel you. You move your hand to his as Ms. Simmons chatters away. Joel is grunting politely every so often - that quiet, deadly Southern charm - but he goes quiet when he feels your fingers on his. And quieter still when you slip the scrap of black fabric into his palm.
His whole body stiffens. Even Ms.Simmons - oblivious as all hell and three sheets to the wind - can sense the change. She frowns.
“Joel? Are you alright?”
He blinks, hard. His fist tightens on the lace.
“Fine,” he grits. “Would you excuse me a second?”
“Oh.” Her face falls. “Sure.”
You’re not expecting him to move as quickly as he does. You’re also not expecting him to grab you the way he does, his free hand snatching at the back of your dress and yanking you into his chest.
“Bathroom,” he growls, stubble raking your ear. “Two minutes.”
He releases you before you can answer. You watch him stalk past you - past the party - and disappear into the house.
And then you follow.
You barely have to knock. Your knuckles graze the door and it swings open, wide enough for Joel’s hand to drag you inside.
The door slams shut behind you. You stand sandwiched between Joel and the handle.
“What the hell are you thinkin’?” he snarls. His fist is still wrapped around your underwear. You can see the fabric peeking out between his fingers.
Your face goes hot.
“I don’t…I thought—”
“What did you think?” he says, accent rough. “You thought takin’ off your panties —” he opens his fist and hooks a finger through the band, letting them dangle — “and handin’ ‘em to me at a party was a good idea?”
You swallow.
“You know what your dad’d do to me if he saw this?” he hisses. “What he’d do to you?”
“Kill us both,” you offer, unhelpfully.
He lifts a brow. Your underwear dangles from his middle finger.
“Damn right, kill us both.”
“So don’t tell,” you say, softly. It’s a hell of a lot bolder than you feel.
He looses a low whistle. You can’t tell if he’s amused, or pissed, or…something else.
“You used to be a good girl,” he says, and now his voice is dangerous. Low, silken, Southern. “What the hell happened?”
“Don’t know.” Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that he’s stepped closer. A lot closer. “Grew up, I guess.”
“I guess,” he echoes.
He lifts his free hand to your face. Your breath catches. You’re halfway convinced he’ll kiss you — but then he grabs your jaw, holding it between rough fingers — and tilts your face to his.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” he growls.
You shake your head, as best you can with his hand on your jaw.
“Whatever you want,” you manage.
“Whatever I want,” he repeats. His eyes are black, his lips inches from yours. You can taste whiskey on his breath. “And you? What am I supposed to do with you?”
You stare at him. His fingers slacken on your jaw, slipping lower, wrapping loosely around your throat.
“Let me guess,” he mutters. “Whatever I want?”
You swallow. Nod, slowly.
He huffs.
“Alright,” he murmurs. His voice is velvet. His hand squeezes your throat. “Get on your knees.”
You look at him, a little surprised. His expression is almost unreadable.
“Anythin’ I want, right?” He cocks his head. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
You don’t. You kneel on the ground, knees digging into the tile. It’ll leave a mark, you’re sure. You couldn’t care less. You put your hands on his belt and he doesn’t stop you. Your panties hang from his finger, still, dragging by your cheek as you work his belt free and tug his jeans past his hips.
“You do this for all the boys?” he taunts. His drawl is thicker, now, slipping to a slur as his self-control wanes.
You shake your head. “No,” you mumble.
“No,” he agrees. His eyes are dark.
You work his boxers down and his cock springs free. You let out a small sound at the sight.
“Quiet,” he clips. He cocks a head toward the window, where the sounds of the party filter through. “Unless you wanna give ‘em a show.”
You shut up. He moves his free hand to the back of your head and wraps his fingers in your hair, pushing you into his cock. Your mouth parts, gasping slightly as his tip drags past your lips.
It’s the first reaction you’ve pulled from him. A chink in brooding armor. A small, quiet grunt as he slides into your mouth.
You smile a little, lips curving around his cock. He tightens his grip in your hair and pulls you closer, wiping your smile clean, making you choke.
“Fuck,” you breathe, when his grip finally slackens. You take a breath, panting softly. His cock is slick with your saliva.
“You ain’t finished.”
He doesn’t grab you this time. He waits for you to move; waits for you to shuffle closer, and brace your hands on his thighs, and take him in your mouth. Waits for you to set the pace.
You can feel him tremble when you move faster, head bobbing, fingers digging at his hips. His hand stretches, steadying himself on the lip of the counter.
“Good?” you murmur. You drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his cock. He flinches.
“Thought I told you—” he swears, knuckles tight on the sink, “—quiet.”
You smile again. He’s losing control. You can tell — the way his hips twitch, the way his cock jumps in your mouth.
“Don’t always listen,” you breathe, placing a kiss to his tip.
“Fuck,” he mutters. His head tilts back. His fist balls around your panties. “That’s good, sweetheart. Just like that. Good—god damn — good girl.”
You swirl your tongue along the head of his cock. His hips buck into your mouth.
“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease,” he growls.
You grin. You hum a soft apology around his cock and take him deeper, ignoring the throb in your knees.
He shudders. His hand flies off of the counter and buries again in your hair.
“Where you want it?” he breathes. His eyes are dark, blown black with lust. His drawl drips down your skin and settles in between your legs.
You draw back long enough to speak. Those same three words.
“Whatever you want,” you mumble.
That drives him fucking crazy. You drive him fucking crazy. His hand tangles in your hair and he fucks your mouth, swearing softly, your own soaked panties crumped in his other hand.
And then his hips jerk, and his half-silent swears spill broken from his mouth. He cums hard, clutching at your hair.
“Fuck,” he pants. You stare up at him, holding him on your tongue, swallowing slowly as he watches. “Good girl, baby. Fuck.”
His praise makes you blush. You sit back on your haunches and watch as he drags his boxers back up, then his jeans, then his belt. He fastens the buckle and looks down at you, still on your knees. He slides your panties into his back pocket and offers you his hand for the second time that night.
You take it and stand, a little shaky. Joel watches you. That impenetrable look is back.
You’re not sure what to say. You’re pretty are you should say something. But you’re spared — for better or worse — by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Loud footsteps. Close footsteps. Footsteps that stop, suddenly, and darken the light under the bathroom door.
Joel moves faster than you. He grabs you, pressing his chest to your back, and claps a palm across your mouth.
The footsteps shuffle, a little uncertain. A knock follows at the door.
“Hello?”
Your heart drops. You slacken in Joel’s grip.
You know that voice. You both do.
Your dad.
“Hello?” he repeats. “Someone in there?”
You squirm. Joel’s hand tightens on your mouth.
“Yeah, sorry,” he calls. “Gimme a sec.”
“Joel?” You can hear your dad chuckle. He sounds drunk. “You seen my kid anywhere?”
You mumble into Joel’s palm. He digs his fingers into your cheek, chest tight against your back.
“Don’t think so,” he calls back.
Your dad sighs. “Saw her talkin’ to that Carter boy…” he mutters. “Kid is bad news.” He pauses. “You okay in there?”
You giggle. You can’t help it. Joel’s arm flexes by your head.
“Fine,” he says, shortly. “Go ahead and use the bathroom downstairs. I need a minute.”
Your dad pauses again. You stifle a laugh, muffled in Joel’s palm.
“Okay,” your dad says, finally. “Let me know if you see my damn daughter.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
His footsteps fade. Joel waits until he’s doubly sure he’s gone to release you.
“Really?” he scowls, when he sees your grin.
“Need a minute,” you imitate him, affecting his drawl. You laugh. “You’re a bad liar.”
“Like hell I am. Saved your ass.” He nods at the door. “Get out of here,” he says.
When you don’t move, he puts a hand on the small of your back and pushes you to the door. “Out. Now. ‘Less you wanna explain this.”
“Not particularly.”
“Didn’t think so.” He cracks the door for you, sweeping the hallway before ushering out out.
You turn back to him before he can shut the door.
“I’m here all summer, you know.”
An almost-smile ghosts his lips.
“You got a death-wish, or somethin’?”
You shrug. “Maybe.”
“Mm.” He huffs. He leans in, desperately close, eyes flicking over your shoulder to ensure you’re alone. “Make sure to fuck you properly next time, if you want it that bad.”
Then he draws back, and that narrowed gaze is back. He yanks the door shut and leaves you alone in the hall.
You take a breath and start downstairs, smoothing your dress down your thighs.
You wonder if that was a promise.
And later — when you make it home, and climb into bed, and slip your hand between your legs —
You hope it was.
IT’S SO GOOD 😭
à la carte
5.8k / dbf!joel x f!reader
warnings: 18+, minors dni. smuttttt. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s), semi-public touching, unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), dom!joel, dbf!joel, angst, soft!dom reader for like two seconds, pet names (baby, angel, pretty girl), praise kink, no use of y/n.
request: a chapter centered around a dinner where joel is invited to readers house. she wants to be annoying and teases joel, only to piss him off more as he sends warnings.
a/n: thank you to everyone who’s supported this series so far! to everyone sending requests - I see them and I love all of them and I’m incorporating them whenever I can. for the people who wanted jealous joel, he’s coming next chapter. apologies for the angst in this one…but sometimes it be like that. love y’all. thank you for feeding my dbf daydreams.
this is part 5 of dbf!joel series, but it can be read separately. read the previous parts here:
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4
masterlist here. kofi here. thank you to everyone who reads, comments, reblogs, y'all mean the world to me. 🤍
“You know,” you mutter, teasingly, “when I said bring something sweet, I was thinking more along the lines of dessert.” His fingers flex on the glass. His breath skates over the shell of your ear. “Already got that, darlin’.” He lets the bottle go and it passes to you. His hand moves to your waist and drags over denim, moving lower, pressing in between your thighs. “Right —” He angles two fingers against your core. “—here.”
You don’t even hear your dad, at first. You’re standing in the kitchen, leaning onto the counter for moral support while your coffee takes five years to brew.
You’re fucking…wiped. You’re sore. You could still feel Joel when you woke up this morning, sprawled out on the sheets, and winced at the ache between your legs.
And you can still feel him now, here. Your arms burn where you’d braced against the door. Your skin stings where he’s marked you with his teeth. You’re wearing his shirt, the one Sarah lent you, and his scent is wrapped up in your collar.
So you’re preoccupied, and rightfully so, when your dad joins you in the kitchen. You’re staring at your reflection in the glass coffee pot when he starts to speak, your eyes glazed, wondering when the soreness between your thighs will subside. And kind of hoping at the same time that it won’t.
“—want anything—”
You turn, a little startled. Your dad blinks back at you.
“Sorry, what?
“I asked if you want anything,” he says, dragging out the words.
“From…”
“From the store? Where I just said I’m going? To pick up dinner?”
“It’s like…” you yawn. Sunlight seeps through the window, dousing the counter, and you squint. “Nine am.”
“For tonight, smartass.”
“Oh.” You look at him, nonplussed. “Are you…cooking?”
“You could try to sound enthused.”
Your gaze narrows. Your coffee is done, finally, and you take your time pouring it into a mug. You take a tentative sip and watch him over the rim.
“I just didn’t know you cooked,” you say.
“I do when we have company,” he says.
You pause. The mug stalls halfway to your lips.
“We have company?”
“Jesus.” He shakes his head. “Do you — do you actually listen to anything I say? Or does it all just kinda —” he makes a whooshing sound and gestures over the top of his head.
You scowl.
“I said Joel’s coming tonight,” he repeats, exasperated. “I invited him. Sarah’s out, and I thought it’d be nice to catch up just the three of us. Like old times.”
You’re silent. You’re pretty sure if he listened closely enough he’d be able to hear your pulse scream.
Something is weird. He picks up on that much. His brows scrunch, trying to get a read when your eyes drop to the mug.
“You don’t…mind,” he asks, after an awkward beat. “Right?”
Yeah, you think.
You mind.
You find your voice in the dregs of your coffee.
“No,” you tell him. “Not at all.”
“Great,” he says. His frown doesn’t quite fade. “Should be fun.”
“Yeah,” you say.
You’re sure.
—
You did actually have plans today. Big plans. You were finally gonna make a dent in that stupid stack of to-read books that’s cluttering your desk.
But of course you can’t do that, now, because the casual mention of Joel at your dinner table has made it fucking impossible to think about anything else.
You make it five pages into your first book — some shitty murder mystery — and toss it off the couch. Then you swear at Joel, even though he’s not here, because he’s ruined a perfectly good afternoon.
You dig your phone out of your pocket and thumb to your texts. You type out a quick message and send.
You: heard you’re coming to dinner
He responds almost immediately. It stokes something a little smug inside you.
Joel: That a problem?
You: no
You’re feeling bold, so you double text.
You: assuming you can keep your hands to yourself.
He doesn’t respond for a few minutes, and you worry that you’ve scared him off. Maybe it is just dinner, to him, and maybe he does just want to see your dad, and now you’ve gone and made this a whole fucking…thing.
But then your phone buzzes, and the ache between your legs practically throbs when his message pings through.
Joel: Ain’t me I’m worried about, sweetheart.
Cocky. Fucking…smug. Your fingers tighten on the phone, squeezing the frame, and you just — ugh. Ugh.
You: i’ll manage
Joel: We’ll see.
“Dick,” you mutter.
But you’re turned on, already. Just sitting here. Just glaring at his two typed words while you read them in that lazy drawl.
It’s not fair, you decide. He doesn’t get to do this every time. He doesn’t get to turn you on, and make you beg, and play you the way he plays that — stupid, sexy guitar. You’re better than that.
You think.
You could turn the tables tonight. Take back some much-needed control. Make him beg. Or — if that’s too ambitious — make him blush, at least.
Yeah. Screw it. Yeah. You can do that. He’s spoiled any chance of peace and quiet for you today. The simple promise of his presence has been enough to derail the whole afternoon. So, yeah. You can fuck with him a little. It’s only fair.
You stretch out on the couch and wiggle your toes. You wait a few minutes before texting him back.
You: you bringing something?
Joel: You want me to?
You: most polite guests do
You: but most polite guests don’t have to be reminded, so.
Joel: Cheeky.
Joel: Got something in mind?
You hesitate half a second.
You: something sweet. surprise me.
Then you shut off your phone before it can buzz, because you’ll be damned if Joel Miller has the last word tonight.
—
Five hours later — eight pm, sharp — Joel turns up at your door.
You tell your dad you’ll get it. He’s busy in the kitchen, cooking up god knows what. It was taking the very vague shape of chicken parmesan the last time you mustered up the courage to peek.
You unlock the door, ease it open, and —
Oh.
Your stomach does a neat little flip. You blink a few times, trying to neutralize the look of surprise you’re sure is scrawled across your face.
You’re pretty positive it’s Joel on your doorstep, but he looks so…nice, so… put-together, that for a minute you’re not positive someone hasn’t kidnapped him, and sent his weirdly well-kept doppelgänger in his place.
You’re used to scruffy Joel. Contractor Joel, with his tee shirts and flannels, his blue jeans with the tears digging in to the seams, his boots tracking dirt where he walks. Tousled hair, chocolate eyes, patchy beard.
You’re not expecting the Joel at your door. You’re not even sure you’ve ever seen him before.
His hair is combed. Slicked back a little, too, like he’s taken time to put in product. He’s in black jeans, not blue, and they look new — no tears, no holes, no washed-out patches. And they fit. They hug his waist; squeeze his legs and his calves just right.
And his shirt — you’ve never seen that, either. Button-down, as black as his jeans, canvas instead of heavy cotton. Plus — what the fuck? — he’s gone ahead and tucked it in.
Well, half-tucked. One of his shirttails hangs out, slumped over his jeans, still slouched and rumpled and very much Joel.
You’re not sure how long you stand there, staring dumbly, but it must be a while because he’s started to smile. That crooked, cocky look. Wolfish and starving. The same one you swore you’d wipe clean tonight.
“Think you’re s’posed to invite me in,” he drawls.
You blink. You take a couple steps back, leaving the door open as you retreat inside. He sidles past you, brushing dangerously close, and his hand skims your waist when he meets you on the threshold.
He pauses there, half a second. You can smell the soap on his skin.
You’re convinced he’ll say something. A filthy word, maybe, nestled in the quiet inch between you.
But he doesn’t. He’s silent. His touch drips from your hips like cool water and he’s moving past you without so much as a word, only turning on his heel when he’s halfway to the dining room.
“Your dad joinin’ us?” he asks, leaning his weight on the edge of the table. He cocks his head. His shirt shifts, exposing smooth, tanned skin where he’s left the top two buttons undone.
You’re staring. You catch yourself, this time.
You mumble something. You’re not sure what. His smile widens, nudging at his cheek, and he reaches for the bowl you’ve set out on the table. He fishes out a chip and pops it into his mouth, munching softly.
Your cheeks burn.
It drives you insane, how casual he is. How completely, perfectly un-fazed. Standing there in his slutty little shirt, unbothered, crunching on a chip while he fucks you with his eyes.
“He’s in the kitchen,” you say, finally. “He’s — well, he’s trying to cook.”
He looks amused.
“Should see ‘f he needs anythin’,” he says. But he makes zero effort to move.
His gaze flickers. Your heart jumps to your throat and you swallow it back.
It’s only then you realize what he’s holding. You’ve been so preoccupied with this new, black-collared version of blue-collar Joel that you hadn’t even noticed the bottle of wine in his hand. He’s clutching it kind of awkwardly, fist choking the neck like he’s never held one in his life. Your eyes go to his hand: to his knuckles, tensed on black glass.
“Didn’t think you drank wine,” you say, softly.
“I don’t,” he answers.
And neither does your dad. Beer and whiskey, through and through, for both of them.
But you drink wine. And — now that you think about it — you’re pretty sure you’d told him once, years ago, that he might look halfway decent if he ever decided to put a comb through his hair.
You’d just been teasing him. It’s what you do.
But, now — the wine, the hair, the jeans that fit and the unbuttoned shirt —
You cant help but feel like he’s done it for you.
You step closer. He’s still leaning up against the table, and your chest brushes his when you reach for the wine. You tilt into his space and your lips graze his jaw.
“Careful,” he warns.
You wrap a hand around the bottle. He doesn’t let go, not right away, and your fingers tangle on the neck.
“You know,” you mutter, teasingly, “when I said bring something sweet, I was thinking more along the lines of dessert.”
His fingers flex on the glass. His breath skates over the shell of your ear.
“Already got that, darlin’.” He lets the bottle go and it passes to you. His hand moves to your waist and drags over denim, moving lower, pressing in between your thighs. “Right —”
He angles two fingers against your core.
“—here.”
You gasp. He rubs your swollen clit over your jeans, and you have to fight his name back from your throat.
And then — of course — the kitchen door swings open, and your dad chooses now to wander out. You hear him coming and rip yourself free, abandoning Joel and the wine as you scurry to the opposite end of the room.
Joel’s reaction time is slower, or maybe he’s just better at playing it cool. He stays leaning up against the table, and you catch him tug at his jeans before your dad rounds the corner.
“Thought I heard you come in,” your dad says. He extends his un-floured hand to shake Joel’s. “Make yourself at home. You know where everythin’ is. Dinner’ll be out in a few.”
Joel grunts. Your dad is so chatty, you kind of wonder how the two of them ever hit it off. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, or something like that.
Your dad clocks the bottle of merlot you’ve left by Joel.
“What’s with the wine? he asks, frowning.
Joel clears his throat. You catch his eye, briefly, and your pulse hums.
“Just bein’ polite,” he says. “I’d take a beer, though, ‘f you got one.”
Your dad laughs. The tension in the dining room diffuses.
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll go grab ya one. Go on and sit down, both of you.”
Joel doesn’t sit. “You, uh—” he pushes himself off of the table, his broad back to you. “You sure you don’t need help?”
You could swear he sounds a little pained. Like he doesn’t quite trust himself to be alone with you.
“Since when are you so eager to help?” Your dad laughs. He points at you. “She’s not botherin’ you, is she?”
A muscle jumps in Joel’s jaw. He turns, a fraction of an inch, just enough for you to watch his lips twitch.
“No,” he says, quietly. “No, she’s a real good girl.”
Fuck.
You’re gonna fucking — kill him. You shoot him a death-glare, but he’s already turning back around, facing your dad with that easy Southern drawl while your blush burns a brand in his back.
So. Fucking. Smug.
You’ll show him.
—
You end up sitting right next to him. You and Joel on one side of the table and your dad on the other.
And it’s fine, at first. It’s almost like old times, when your dad totes a burnt chicken out, and you all pretend to like it until someone breaks first and you fall like dominoes.
But then you laugh, and your knee bumps Joel’s, and the innocent contact makes your heart shiver.
You slide one hand off of the table and into your lap. The other holds your fork steady, ghosting over your plate, nodding quietly along as the conversation starts to blur.
You’re not listening anymore. Which is fine, because your dad and Joel are debating the finer points of power tools, and they seem to have forgotten you exist.
Until the hand in your lap sneaks to Joel’s thigh.
He flinches. His knife clatters to the rim of his plate.
Your dad pauses mid-sentence. “You alright?” he asks, eyeing Joel across the table.
“Fine,” Joel grits. He picks up his knife again, and you don’t miss the way his knuckles whiten on the hilt.
He’s not alright. Not really. Because your hand is in his lap, sliding under his napkin, palm coming up to cover the bulge in his jeans.
He swears. He hides it well, buried in his hand, but you still catch it. The sharp, biting fuck he tries to smooth with a cough.
Your dad glances up, vaguely concerned. It’s probably the most noise he’s heard Joel make in one consecutive sitting.
“‘M fine,” Joel mutters. “Somethin’ stuck in my throat.”
“I’ll get you some water,” your dad offers — and to your surprise, Joel doesn’t protest.
His acquiescence makes more sense when your dad disappears into the kitchen, and Joel takes the opportunity to seize your wrist and pin your hand to his cock.
“You’re on thin fuckin’ ice,” he growls.
You try not to smile. He’s not blushing — not yet, at least — but he’s flustered.
“What?” you whisper. You wrap your fingers around his erection and squeeze.
He hisses through his teeth.
“Jesus—Christ,” he grits, swallowing a groan, “just—fuckin’—just wait.”
You can hear your dad in the kitchen, fumbling for water in the fridge. He’s not exactly expeditious. If Joel were actually choking, he probably would have died twice by now.
You figure you have another ten, fifteen seconds until he gets back.
You lean closer to Joel. You stroke him through his jeans, thumbing the head of his cock, and he breathes out a curse.
“Quit.”
“Quit what?” you ask, innocent. “I’m not doing anything.”
He huffs. His grip on your wrist tightens, holding you against his cock as he ruts into your palm.
“This what you want?” he mutters. His cock throbs in your hand. “Dirty fuckin’ girl. You wanna get us both killed?”
You hear the fridge door shut. Joel’s grip goes slack and you pull your hand free, snaking it back to your lap as your dad rounds the corner.
He sets a glass of water down in front of Joel.
“Here y’go,” he says. He takes his seat across the table from you and doesn’t catch the way Joel fidgets, tugging his napkin back over his lap.
You watch Joel drink out of the corner of your eye. He downs half the glass in one go and sets it back on the table with a dull, anxious thud.
“So,” your dad says. “This big project of yours. Top secret? Or can you tell us?”
Thank god. The sooner they slip back to contracting talk the sooner you can tune out. Direct your attention elsewhere.
Joel mumbles something noncommittal. For all his easy, Southern charm he’s having trouble staying focused, muddling his way through one sentence and trailing off halfway through another. You take a certain amount of pride in having fucked him up already.
Your dad chimes in, mercifully, and Joel shuts up. You can feel him beside you, tensed in his seat, fingers crimping the edges of his napkin.
You pick up your spoon. You can feel his eyes on you the second you move, tracking your hand as it skates over silver.
You glance at him and he looks away. Pretends to focus on your dad as he rambles away. But the muscle in his neck gives him away, twitching just beneath his jaw as you lift the spoon to your plate, drag some sauce along the edge, and lift the metal to your mouth.
You hold it there for a minute, trapped between your two front teeth as you feign interest in the conversation. Then you lean forward, just slightly, elbows brushing the table as you swirl your tongue along the rim of the spoon.
Joel is listening, or trying to. But he can see you in his peripheral, twirling the spoon between your fingers and following the curve with your tongue.
And this time he does choke. For real. He’s got his glass halfway to his lips when you part your mouth and push the spoon deeper, against the flat of your tongue. He’s trying so hard not to look, but his dick gets the better of his head and he glances at you, quickly — just long enough to see your lips close slow and soft and smirking around silver.
He sputters. Coughs. Your dad looks up in alarm.
“Jesus,” he jokes. “Chicken that dry?”
You pull the spoon from your mouth with a pop and lay it down by Joel’s pinky.
He stiffens.
“Chicken’s fine,” he grits. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.”
“Gettin’ old,” your dad teases.
He doesn’t laugh. He’s pissed. You can feel the heat coming off him in waves, rolling from his shoulders and staining his cheeks.
And maybe you shouldn’t be proud, because his breathing is short and his fingers are fisted and he’s furious, you can tell — but you are.
Because he’s blushing.
You made Joel Miller blush.
You ride that high for about five minutes. It ends abruptly when Joel stands up pushing back his chair, and starts to gather everyone’s plates.
Your dad tries to protest.
“You don’t need to,” he says, starting to stand. But Joel waves him away, rounding up silverware, clearing the table in stiff, stony silence.
“You cooked,” Joel gruffs. “Sit down. I’ll deal with the dishes.”
Your dad relents, settling back into his seat. Joel straightens, plates balanced in his hand, and pauses by your chair on his way to the kitchen.
“Did you cook?” he asks.
You look up at him. You’ve got the sinking feeling your victory was short-lived: he’s not blushing, not anymore, and he’s looking down at you like a wolf stares down a rabbit.
Completely in control. Completely pissed.
“No,” you mumble.
“Good,” he drawls. “Then you can help.”
Your gaze flicks to your dad. He nods, oblivious as ever — go on, go help — and you stand shakily from your seat.
You follow Joel out of the dining room and into the kitchen. He pushes open the door with his shoulder and you slip in before it swings shut.
The silence is suffocating. You lean up against the counter and wrap your fingers on the ledge, watching him across the room with a nervous, darting stare.
He puts the plates down by the sink and turns the faucet on. Then he stills, his back to you, shoulders bunched in black fabric as he watches the water.
He doesn’t rinse anything. He just lets the tap run, drowning out sound from beyond the door. Ensuring your dad doesn’t hear when he turns to face you and growls, low and dark and dangerous—
“You wanna fuckin’ explain that?”
Your fingers curl on cool granite. When you don’t respond right away he shoves himself off the sink, crossing the kitchen in long, angry strides.
His hands find your waist. He pushes you back, into the counter, and the edge of the stone bites your spine.
“Asked you a question,” he grits.
His erection crowds your hips, nudging into your core.
“Sorry,” you gasp; and you’re not, really — you did this on purpose, riled him up, and a part of you thinks it’s cause you knew this might happen. “I’m—fuck—”
“Think it’s funny?” he murmurs. “Teasin’ me under the table?” He rolls his hips into yours and you gasp.
“Fuckin’—filthy,” he grits. “Touchin’ me in front of your daddy. You need it that bad, pretty girl? You that fuckin’ desperate?”
His hand slips under your shirt and splays at your ribcage. His fingertips move higher, skating up your skin, grazing your nipple through the cup of your bra.
So much for taking back control. You whine softly, trying to lift your hips off the counter as you chase his cock.
The hand on your waist clamps tighter.
“Open your mouth,” he says.
You stop wriggling. You part your lips for him and his hand leaves your hip, coming up to wrap around your throat.
His thumb settles on the edge of your jaw. It digs into the skin there, kneading gently, forcing your gaze to him. His index and middle fingers tug at your lip and dip into your mouth.
You swallow a whimper around his fingers. He slides them further and you suck obediently, taking him to the knuckle.
“You can do better’n that,” he taunts. “Know you can. Saw you chokin’ on that fuckin’ spoon.”
His words go straight to your core. White heat pools at the pit of your stomach.
He hooks his fingers and pushes deeper. You let him, slackening your jaw, moaning against his knuckles.
He pulls his hand back and you gasp. A string of spit drips from your lips when he drags his fingers free. You’d put on lipstick tonight — light, neutral — and you can see it smeared around the base of his knuckles.
You don’t need a mirror to know you look fucked.
He swipes the spit from your chin with his thumb. You look up at him, panting softly.
“God damn, baby.”
Your heart thrums at your chest. You whine a little, snaking your hand down to palm at his cock.
He groans.
“Turn around,” he orders.
You hesitate. The small of your back digs into the counter.
“Turn around,” he repeats, voice low. “‘F you want it so bad, I’ll give it to you.”
You look over your shoulder, quickly, towards the swinging door that leads out of the kitchen. The faucet is still on, maintaining the illusion that you are, in fact, doing dishes. The running water muffles your short, shallow breaths.
Your dad is in the next room over. Thirty, forty feet away. Still sitting at the table, you assume, probably scrolling through his phone while he waits for you both.
“My dad,” you whisper. “He’s right — what if he comes in?”
Joel follows your gaze to the door. When his eyes drag back to you they’re black.
“Suggest you make it quick,” he says. His hands go to your waist and he spins you, turning you around until the edge of the counter digs into your tummy. He kicks your feet apart, lining his hips with your ass, and you let his name slip.
“Fuck,” you breathe, “Joel, f—”
His palm comes up to cover your mouth. You go silent, hips stuttering, eyes rolling back when he hooks a finger in your waistband and drags your pants down.
He finds the band of your underwear and pulls those down, too. They bunch around your thighs and keep your legs from spreading further.
“I’m gonna take my hand away,” he murmurs, voice scraping your ear, “and you’re gonna keep your mouth shut.”
You nod weakly. Okay.
His palm drops from your mouth and he slides two fingers into your cunt. The same two he’d pushed inside your mouth, soaked and shining now with your saliva. They slip in easily, sinking to the last knuckle, and you fold into the counter in an effort not to whine.
“‘Attagirl,” he mutters. “Just like that.”
His wrist flexes between your thighs, fucking into you with thick fingers. Your cunt throbs, squeezing at his hand. He must feel you clench, grinding down on his knuckles, because he drags his hand back with a tight little chuckle.
You whimper softly, mourning the loss.
He could make you cum like that, easily. And he knows it, too. He knows your body by now, knows how to crook his fingers and stretch you just right, knows that you’d beg him until you were hoarse if you were anywhere — anywhere — else.
He knows all that, and he pulls his hand away anyway. He doesn’t let you cum, because this isn’t about you. This is dirty, and quick, and desperate. This is payback for an hour of teasing, and touching, and sucking off a spoon in the corner of his eye.
This is punishment.
You hear his zipper pull, and the rustle of denim, and then his hand is on your back, guiding your chest to the counter until you’re practically folded in two. Your head turns, cheek pressed to cool stone. His fingers wrap at the back of your neck and hold you gently in place.
He slides into you and your voice almost breaks. You suck a sharp breath through your mouth and exhale his name.
He’s not wasting time. He bottoms out, cock twitching deep inside you, and you make useless fists on the granite. His hips roll, grinding into your ass, and you think you hear him swear.
“Feel fuckin’—tight,” he whispers, harshly. His breath stumbles and slips to your shoulders. “How are you this—god damn—tight?”
Your cheeks start to burn — at his words, at the low, rough sounds he’s making at your back, at how supremely fucked up this is.
If your dad were to walk in now, right now, there’s no way you could cover your tracks quickly enough. You’re facing the door. Joel’s got you splayed across the countertop, your chest kissing stone while he fucks you from behind.
And that’s not the worst part, as far as you’re concerned. The worst part is that you can’t seem to care.
Joel’s fingertips dig at the nape of your neck, pressing your cheek to the counter. He’ll leave a print, probably. A mark on your neck to go with all the others.
“This what you needed?” he asks, voice dripping at your ear. “Huh?”
You mumble into the stone. Heat coils in your stomach and licks at your core. You push back into him, as best you can, and the added depth lets his cock graze your g-spot. You bear down on your lip so hard you taste blood.
“’N now?” he growls. “Now what d’you need?”
His hips flex. He thrusts up, into you, and his hand tightens by your head.
“You need to cum?”
Yes.
You try to nod — yes, please, fuck — but his grip on your neck makes it impossible.
“‘F I let you,” he says, “you gonna pull that shit at the table again?”
You go to shake your head, but his hand prevents you from moving again.
“Yes or no?” he hisses.
“No,” you mumble. “I—fuck. No.”
“You sorry?”
“Yes,” you say, mindlessly. Your skin is on fire. You can’t string two thoughts together, anymore, but it’s apology enough.
“Okay,” he mutters. His voice softens. The grip on your neck goes slack, freeing up your movements. “Alright, angel. C’mon.”
You have to bite down hard on the back of your hand to keep from crying out when you cum. Your muscles slacken, bones going limp as you slump against the counter.
Joel praises you quietly — ’s good, baby, good girl, easy, easy, easy— while he fucks you through it. You’re barely recovered before he’s pulling out of you with a soft, stilted groan, leaving you stunningly empty.
You push yourself up, off of the counter. You turn, still shaky, and watch with heavy, hungry eyes as he pumps his cock with his fist.
You’re not really thinking when you sink to your knees. You just do it, and he doesn’t stop you — not when you put his hands on his thighs, or drag your mouth to the tip of his swollen cock.
Your lips brush his fingers, still wrapped around himself, and he barely stifles a groan. He drops his hand and chokes out a curse when you take him deeper. He tips forward, bracing one hand on the counter and the other on your head.
“Fuck,” he breathes, “yeah, baby. Like that. Don’t—ah—god—don’t st—”
His hips rut, stuttering into your mouth as he cums across your tongue. You pull back, rocking on your haunches, and his cock slips free. You meet his eye from the floor and he watches you swallow.
He groans. His head tips, pushing out a breath.
He lends a hand to help you stand. When he pulls his jeans back up his fingers fumble on the zipper.
You get dressed quickly, quietly, and by the time you’re done Joel’s back at the sink. He’s turned away from you, working at the stack of plates you’d abandoned and rinsing them under the still-running tap.
You watch him while your breath evens out. When your legs feel solid again, and you’re convinced you can make it the length of the kitchen, you walk quietly to his back. You loop your hands around his waist and brush your lips against his shoulder.
It’s soft. There’s no lust in it — just a silent sort of warmth — but he seizes up like he's been shot. The plate he’s working on skitters into the sink.
Your hands slip back to your sides. You back up. Something anxious swirls at the bottom of your chest.
“I can take care ‘f the rest,” he says, quietly. He doesn’t turn to look at you.
You blink. Right.
“Yeah,” you mumble. “Sure.”
Your shirt is wrinkled where his hands creased the fabric. You smooth it back down, raking over his touch, and leave him standing by the sink.
—
You don’t see him again until you walk him to the door. He disappears into the living room with your dad — some big baseball game is on — and you excuse yourself to your room. You’re not exactly presentable: smudged lipstick, rumpled hair — and Joel’s mood when you left him in kitchen had been palpably weird.
You sneak downstairs an hour later, for a glass of water, and catch him on his way out the door.
Your dad stops you.
“There you are,” he says, smiling. “Joel was just leavin’. You can walk him out, say goodbye.”
You pause. You look at Joel and Joel doesn’t look at you.
“Sure,” you say.
Your dad nods. He shakes Joel’s hand and shuffles off down the hall — to bed, you assume, if the yawn you hear is any indication.
You’re left in stifling silence. Joel opens the door and you follow him out onto the porch, blinking at the heavy dark.
“Are you okay?” you blurt, when you can’t take it any more. “Like, did I do something, or—?”
“No,” he says, quickly.
That settles your stomach. Slightly. You nod, still a little unsure.
“Okay,” you say. “So—okay.”
He stares. At least he’s looking at you, now.
“Um.” You rub at your wrist. “Maybe next time we could do this, like — just us. Alone. No…” You gesture broadly behind you. To your house. To your dad.
You watch him take a breath. Something flickers in dark eyes.
“This has to stop,” he murmurs. “This is—fuck.” He rakes a hand through his stubble. “This is so fuckin’ stupid.”
Your pulse thrums. Your brow furrows as you try to read his face — is he joking? Is he fucking serious?
“No one knows,” you say, slowly.
“And how long ’til someone finds out?” He shakes his head. “You keep fuckin’—shit. You keep doin’ this to me, I’m not gonna be able to—”
He huffs. His weight shifts on the floorboards.
Your stomach pools at your feet.
“I’m an adult,” you say. “It’s not—we’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Fuck—come on,” he hisses. “You’re not that dumb. Just—think, for two seconds. Your dad, Sarah—”
“Where was this an hour ago?” you snap. Your voice starts to rise, clawing its way up your throat. “When you were—when you were fucking me in the kitchen? Or was this not a convenient conversation to have while you were getting your dick sucked?”
“Jesus, fuckin’—keep your voice down.”
You stare at him. Your breath comes, hard and fast, threatening to tangle on a sob.
“So, what?” You swallow. “That’s it?”
He’s quiet. Anger flares on your skin, burning your cheeks.
“You get what you want and fuck off? Is that it?”
“Stop,” he mutters. “Just — stop. That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it, exactly?”
He looks pained. His jaw is tight, and his throat pulls taut when he hangs his head.
“I—‘f we keep goin’ like this, I—”
He sighs. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “This has to stop.”
You stare at him. Shake your head, incredulous.
“Fuck you,” you say, quietly. “Fuck you, Joel.”
He doesn’t move.
“Go,” you tell him, balling your fists when your voice starts to break. He’s not about to see you cry. “Jesus Christ. Can you just — fucking — go.”
He looks at you for a long time. Long enough to see a tear cut your cheek, when you can’t hold it back any longer.
His face falls. He takes half a step towards you on instinct and you shrink away from him.
“Don’t,” you warn.
You don’t want him to listen. You want him to touch you. You want him to stay.
“Just go, Joel,” you mumble.
He goes.
taglist (lmk if you wanna be added!):
@bbyanarchist @elissaaa @nana90azevedo @cannolighost @jbb-sgr @cedricbitch @totallynotastanacc @jasminedragoon
it’s just so good 😭
san antonio
12.5k / dbf!joel x f!reader
warnings: 18+, minors dni. smut. more smut. smut after that. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel, feisty reader, oral (m receiving), toxic!joel, light violence, edging, teasing, nonconsensual touching/harassment (creepy men at the bar), protective!joel, possessive sex, unprotected p in v, shower sex, pet names (angel, baby, pretty girl, etc), praise kink, no use of y/n.
a/n: im back...with another ridiculously long chapter and a ridiculously horny joel miller. i tried to incorporate a lot of requests this time around - shower sex, date night, pda, feisty reader...if you're someone who requested any of those i hope i could do 'em justice. i wanna thank y'all a million times over for all of your support on this series. it means everything to me. finding this fandom and being able to share this writing has been incredible. i love every one of y'all.
this is part 7 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here (or read this standalone):
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6
masterlist here. kofi here, if you feel like leaving a tip!
“C’mon,” he says, when you don’t move. “‘Less you’d rather starve.” He turns and walks off. You swear softly and scrabble at your own door, wrenching it open and jumping down to the asphalt. You have to jog to catch up to him. “You’re supposed to wait,” you pant, when you reach him. He shrugs. He pulls his car key from his pocket and clicks the lock. The truck chirps somewhere behind you. “Y’were takin’ too long,” he says. “You’re a gentleman.” He looks at you. The corner of his lip curves. “’N you’re a brat,” he says, cooly.
You don’t see much of Joel the rest of the week. It’s not for lack of wanting on either of your parts. You’re just…busy. You spend your days applying to every job you can get your hands on, and your nights watching shitty cable movies with your dad.
Your dad is even clingier than usual. He’s cockblocked you twice in as many days. You’d planned on sneaking out last night, after dinner — making up some excuse and going to Joel’s place, instead — and he’d stopped you with one foot out the door. Guilt-tripped you into eating frozen pizzas and watching the Hallmark Channel’s mind-numbing Christmas in July special.
So you’d stayed home, and swallowed the ache between your legs. Tried to think about anything other than the fact that you could be getting railed by your father’s best friend, right now, if you weren’t watching the world’s worst movie instead.
You’d texted Joel to let him know you wouldn’t make it. Some innocuous complaint about Hallmark and frozen pizza. You hadn’t been expecting much of a response.
But he had responded, about five minutes into the opening scene. You’d felt your phone buzz between couch cushions and fished it out of the dark.
Joel: That’s a shame. Had big plans for you.
You’d almost thrown your phone at the TV. And of course he hadn’t fucking responded to anything after that — even when you’d double and triple texted a series of frustrated ???s — because he’s a tease.
“Turn your phone off,” your dad had said. “It’s movie night.”
And then —
“Who’re you talkin’ to, anyway? That Hayes kid?”
You’d stared at Joel’s name on your screen. Clicked your phone off, and let it slide back between cushions.
“No,” you’d muttered. “Just a friend.”
—
By the time day three of no Joel rolls around, you’re coming out of your skin. It’s kind of embarrassing, how badly you want to see him.
So when your dad mentions him at breakfast, casually, like he’s reporting on the weather — you choke. Your mug comes down hard on the glass.
He stares at you. You wave him off.
“Sorry,” you sputter. “Swallowed wrong.”
“Mm.” He shakes his head. “So damn jumpy lately. Couldn’t even make it through Christmas in July.”
“I’m not jumpy,” you bristle. “That was just a terrible movie.”
His jaw drops. He glares at you, mock-wounded.
“Not terrible,” he says. “Classic. Iconic. Fun for the whole family.”
You lift a hand in surrender. Whatever you say. Your dad leans back in his seat, hands laced behind his head. He gives you an easy, goofy grin and you almost feel bad for steering the conversation back to his best friend.
“You were saying something about, um—” You clear your throat. Drop your gaze from your dad to your coffee. “About Joel, I think? Before?”
“Oh, sure.” He sits up. Slaps his hands on his thighs. “Alright. Listen. Hear me out ‘fore you say no.”
“Not off to a promising start.”
“Just—listen,” he says. “I was s’posed to head down to San Antonio with Joel this weekend. Just two nights. He’s meetin’ a client there. Some hotshot lady buildin’ a big house here in Austin. Wants to hire him for the job.”
You sip your coffee. It burns your throat on the way down.
“Okay,” you say, slowly.
“I can’t go. Got my own client problems. Need to stay here this weekend and put out some fires.”
“Okay.” You blink. “So…”
“So, I promised I’d help him out. S’posed to be a two person job. He’s haulin’ blueprints, samples, all kinds of shit to San Antonio. Go a lot faster for him if he had an extra set of hands.”
You’re not stupid. The only reason you don’t immediately pick up on what he’s asking is because you can’t quite believe what you’re hearing.
“So—sorry.” You shake your head. “You’re asking me to—”
“I’m askin’ you to go with him. As a favor. For me. You can—put it on your resume, or somethin’. For all those jobs you been applyin’ for.”
He must take your blank stare for distaste, because he doubles down.
“Look,” he says, when you forget to blink, “I know he ain’t the easiest. You been weird about him since you got home. But—”
“I haven’t been weird,” you say.
There’s an awkward pause.
“Okay,” your dad says, lifting his palms. “Whatever. Anyway, point is, he’s a pain in the ass. But I gave him my word. He’ll take good care ‘a you. And you hardly have to see him. Just — drive up there with him, help him with the client. That’s it.”
“That’s it,” you repeat. Your throat feels thick.
“C’mon,” your dad says. “Two days. You can handle him for two days, right?”
You can feel your heartbeat behind your eyes.
It’s kind of perverse, him pleading like this. You wonder what he’d do — to you, to Joel — if he knew just what he was offering. If he knew he was sitting here at the breakfast table, practically begging his only daughter to fuck off on an all-expenses-paid weekend of sex with his best friend.
So, really — you should say no. It’s the right thing to do. The good daughter thing to do.
But you ticked the good daughter box already, last night, when you watched that godawful movie instead of sneaking off to Joel’s. So…
“Yeah,” you say, and hope your voice sounds even. “Sure. I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” your dad says, and you almost feel bad. “I’ll break the news to Joel. Hope he won’t be too disappointed. S’posed to be a boy’s weekend, ’n all.” He looks at you. “No offense, kid.”
“Mm.” You shake your head. You have to bury your smile in the rim of your cup. “None taken.”
—
Joel, as it turns out, is pretty far from disappointed.
Your dad wanders over there around noon to let him know the change in plans. You get a text from Joel ten minutes later.
Joel: Heard you’re my new plus one.
You can’t help smiling. Your fingers fumble on the keyboard when you go to text him back.
You: disappointed?
Joel: I’ll live.
You smirk.
You: anything i should pack? clothing-wise?
He waits a couple seconds before responding. You can see his three grey bubbles appear and disappear at the corner of your screen.
Joel: The less the better.
Your head swims.
—
It’s a ninety-minute drive to San Antonio.
You listen to music for the first half of the drive. Joel lets you DJ and doesn’t kick up a fuss — not even when you put on a 2000s Party Hits playlist and sing into your phone like a mic. He refuses to sing along, though. You tilt your phone to his mouth at every chorus and watch the almost-imperceptible shake of his head. You have a niggling suspicion he’s trying not to laugh.
You nudge him halfway through Fergalicious. He tries his best to ignore you.
You lean forward and click off the music. Fergie trails into silence.
“You know,” you say, “you’re not very fun.”
He scowls.
“I’m fun,” he says.
“Oh, yeah? Name the last time you had fun.”
He tears his eyes from the road for a split second. Just to glare at you.
“Jesus.” He shakes his head. “How long is this fuckin’ drive?”
“Has anyone ever told you,” you say, leaning over the center console, “how sweet you are?”
He grunts.
Your phone buzzes before you can torture him more. You pull it back down to your lap and tap at the lockscreen.
Hayes: 1 new message
It buzzes again before your screen can go dark.
Hayes: 2 new messages
Your heart sinks. You click your phone off and let the screen go black.
“Good?” Joel asks, when you’re quiet just a beat too long.
You look up. Nod, quickly, and stash your phone in your pocket.
“Yeah,” you mumble. “Sorry.”
He shrugs. Unfazed. Your gaze lingers on his profile: the square cut of his jaw, the scrunch of dark eyes when he squints at the sun. His hand on the wheel, wrapped up on worn leather.
Hayes and his unread texts flee your thoughts before they settle. You’ve got one thing on your mind, and he’s sitting six inches away. His lip curves, like he can feel you staring, and a bolt of longing stings your core.
When he speaks he doesn’t look at you. His stare is fixed on the road.
“Can feel ya starin’, pretty girl.” His jaw flinches, like he’s trying not to smile. “See somethin’ you like?”
“Not staring,” you say, as you continue to stare.
You shift in your seat, trying to alleviate some of the tension between your legs. His gaze flicks briefly from the road. Just long enough to stoke the fire on your skin.
You twist to face him fully. You rest your elbow on the console and lean over into his space.
“I’m not,” you echo. You lay your free palm on his knee and smirk when he stiffens.
A muscle jumps in his leg where your fingertips dig into denim. He doesn’t say anything, though. Not until your hand moves higher, skating over his knee and up the muscled expanse of his thigh.
Your fingers tighten. You edge closer to the seam of his jeans.
“What are you doin’?” he mutters.
You pause. Your hand hovers at the inside of his thigh.
“Nothing,” you say.
You move again. Your fingers drift into his lap and trace the growing hardness there.
He drags in a breath. It breaks the heavy silence in the car.
“Let me,” you say, quietly. You squeeze, gently, and his exhale stumbles. “Please.”
He huffs. His eyes break from the road, long enough to look at you.
“Go on, then,” he growls. “Get a fuckin’ move on.”
Your skin flushes. His lip quirks.
“Go on,” he repeats. “Wanna run that mouth so much. Might s’well give it somethin’ to do.”
You swallow. White heat pools between your legs.
You stroke the head of his cock through his jeans and he sucks in a breath. Your hand pulls higher, to the metal teeth of his zipper, and you steal a look at him.
He’s still staring stubbornly ahead. Jaw tight. Eyes glued to the highway. Hand looped around the wheel with a white-knuckle grip.
You work his fly down. His fingers flex on the wheel.
He lifts his hips. Gives you just enough leeway to drag his jeans and his boxers down far enough to free his cock.
The truck lists to the left. He pulls it back to center with a curse.
“Shit,” he mutters. His voice sounds strained. “You—”
You don’t wait for him to finish. You lean further across the console, braced on your elbow, and take the tip of his cock into your mouth.
He curses. Covers his groan with a cough.
You smile. Your lips curve around his cock, squeezing gently when you take him deeper. Your palm stays flat on his thigh, resting on faded denim as you ease him past your tongue.
He’s big. A hell of a lot bigger than anyone you’re used to. Especially at this angle, draped across the console with his cock stuffed in your mouth. He nudges the back of your throat and you choke.
“Fuck,” he drawls. You can hear his velvet smirk. “Too big, baby?”
You have to clench your fist to keep from whining. Your nails dig into your palm. You try to tell him no, fuck off, screw you — and all you manage is a strangled mmph.
So much for that. You hear his satisfied chuckle somewhere above you.
“S’okay,” he says. “You’re tryin’.”
You mumble something defiant around his cock, and the hum of your voice makes him groan. You relax your throat and take him deeper — as far as you can — and the added inch makes him hiss.
Then you ease up, and drag your mouth up his length, and release him with a tight little pop. Spit drizzles from your lip to the head of his cock.
His hips twitch. He bears down so hard on the wheel that the leather starts to groan.
You stick your tongue out. Lick at the tip of his cock with tiny, shallow strokes until his palm picks up and smacks hard on the wheel.
“Fuck,” he growls. “Stop it. Just— ”
You pause. Your breath pants at the head of his swollen cock. You wrap a fist around his base and hold him steady, just in front of your tongue.
He swears again. Tries to strain into your mouth. Pre-cum beads at the tip of his cock and drips to the top of your fist.
“I can take it,” you say.
He grunts. Irritated, turned on — both, maybe.
“Let me show you.”
He grunts again. A little more desperate, this time. You feel his truck drift to the right before he drags a sharp breath and corrects on the wheel.
You lick a stripe up his shaft. He groans.
“Unless…” You look up. He swallows, hard. “Unless you think I can’t.”
“No,” he huffs. “Fuck. No. Know you can, angel. Show me. Fuckin’—Christ.”
You smile. You swirl your tongue along the head of his cock, lapping at the mess he’s already made, and take him back between your lips.
It’s almost too much. You can tell. His cock pulses on your tongue.
“Easy,” he gasps. “Slow, baby, easy.”
You ignore him. You hollow your cheeks and swallow him deeper, all the way to the base, until your lips brush his pelvis. Your throat burns. He throbs inside your mouth, hot and thick and velvet-soft. He’s too fucking big for this, but you’re determined.
One of his hands flies off the wheel. You hear it pound against the window.
“Fuck,” he groans. “God — damn. You’re a fuckin’ — ah, angel, slow. Fuckin’ — slow.”
You grin. But you listen, this time. You take it slow. Mostly because you’re having fun, torturing him, and it’s another half hour to San Antonio. You figure he can suffer a little longer.
You ease up. Your head bobs slower and you hold him at the back of your throat. You hum softly, ignoring the heat that drips between your thighs.
His breathing evens. Just slightly. You can tell whenever he takes his eyes off the road and looks at you, wrapped around his cock, because the truck lists dangerously close to the median. He must drag it back from the brink five times in ten minutes.
“Told you you were fuckin’ — dangerous,” he punches out. “Gonna get us — fuck, baby — gonna get us killed.”
You drag your mouth from his cock. His eyes leave the road and roll to the sky.
“I could stop,” you offer.
There’s a grunt. His hips chase your mouth.
“Think I’d rather die,” he says, trailing to a groan when you take him back to your mouth.
You’re content to keep him on the edge like that for a while. Until you feel the truck slow, to what you assume must be the speed limit, and you hear his finger taptap on the wheel.
“Cop,” he mutters. “Keep your head down.”
You sputter. You try to slow up — to pull your head back — and he snakes a hand from the wheel. It tangles in your hair and holds your head steady. Your mouth stays fastened around his cock.
“What did I just fuckin’ say?” he breathes.
You mumble. His hand loosens in your hair, forming a makeshift ponytail as he guides your mouth updownup.
Your pulse quickens. Wetness seeps to the hem of your panties. You half expect the whine of sirens; the flash of blue and red with every shallow thrust of his hips.
“Attagirl,” he says. His gaze is trained on the windshield. On the road. “Such a pretty mouth, baby. Better not get us into any fuckin’ trouble.”
You shake your head, or try to. It’s kind of useless, with his hand stunting your movements. His thigh twitches under your palm.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You wanna swallow, babygirl?”
You nod, as best you can with his cock down your throat. His fingers stroke your hair.
“Not til he’s fuckin’ gone,” he says, with a glance at the cop in his rearview. “Y’hear me?”
Your breath quickens. You squeeze your thighs against the ache that pulls there. You try to nod, again, and it’s good enough for Joel. His cock pulses twice at the back of your throat and he spills hot across your tongue.
He breathes hard. A broken moan slips past his lips.
“Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck, baby.”
You draw back, but you don’t get up. You stay sprawled over the console, head in his lap, mouth full of his cum. A little bit spills free and drizzles down your chin, and it’s filthy — it’s fucking filthy — but you don’t think twice. You just do it. You hold it there in your mouth, let it drip down your chin — because he asked you to. Because you want to.
The cop must pass, because you hear Joel breathe out a sigh, and the truck picks up speed again. His hand goes flat against your head, nestled snugly in your hair.
“He’s gone,” he says, so casually it makes you weak. “Sit up, pretty girl. Swallow.”
You pull yourself out of his lap. Slump back against your own seat. He rips his eyes from the road long enough to watch you swallow.
“Good girl,” he mutters. He takes one hand off the wheel and reaches over, swiping his thumb across the mess on your chin. “Listen a whole lot better when your mouth is full.”
You shrug. You pull the mirror down on the passenger side and fix your rumpled hair.
“Maybe you should shut me up more often, then.”
You watch him swallow.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
You snap the mirror closed. Look over at him with a raised brow.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” He shakes his head. You’re pretty sure he almost laughs. “Not gonna get any fuckin’ work done.”
—
Joel checks you both into the hotel. It’s nice enough. A Hyatt in the center of downtown.
You’re booked for two separate rooms. It’s your dad’s reservation — and, naturally, he’d opted for his own room.
The woman at reception confirms the booking. Rooms 1410 and 1412. Joel stops her with a quiet hand.
“Just need the one,” he says.
Your heart skips. You’re not sure why. You can blow him all day in the front seat of his car, but it’s the fact he wants to share a room that brings on the butterflies.
You lay your hands on the front desk. Lean into the counter, casually, and pretend like you’re not interested in the conversation Joel’s having with the concierge.
“—change of plans,” he’s explaining. “Don’t need it.”
The lady hesitates. She looks at him. Then you.
“Okay,” she says, after a beat. “And is that — sorry, is that gonna be two Queens? Or—”
Joel tilts his head. His fingers trill on the counter.
“That all you got?”
She consults the computer.
“We have, uh — one King left.”
“King, then,” he drawls. “Only need one bed.”
You swallow. The concierge nods.
“Sure. That King room is one of our suites, though. It’d be about — $300 extra, for the two nights.”
He tosses you a sidelong glance. You start to shake your head.
“It’s fine,” you say, quickly, “you don’t have to—”
He draws his wallet out of his back pocket. Slides his card across the counter.
“Work trip,” he says, when the lady takes his card. “No expense spared.”
You have to hide your blush in your sleeve.
—
The room is nice. About $300 nicer than it needs to be, thanks to Joel’s spur of the moment upgrade. You’re on the 14th floor — very top — with a bird’s eye view of downtown from your window. You can make out the tops of peoples’ heads as they gather at a crosswalk.
Joel carries your bag up from the car. He sets it down by the bed and joins you at the window, caging you against the glass with his chest to your back.
Your body responds immediately. Your head tilts back, into his shoulder, and he bends to nip at your neck. His hands settle heavy on your waist.
“This is nice,” you say, softly. “The room. And — this.”
He hums. His stubble rakes your neck.
“You do this for all your work trips?” you murmur. “Or am I just special?”
His mouth drops to your shoulder. His hands squeeze gentle at your sides.
“You’re certainly somethin’,” he mutters. Teasing.
You twist to face him. Your back thuds softly against the window. You rest your arms on his shoulders and fix him with a grin.
“Rude,” you say.
He huffs. You watch his gaze dart from your mouth, to your eyes, to your mouth, again.
“Meetin’s not til tomorrow,” he says. His voice is low. “We could…y’know.”
He nods out the window. To the street below, lined with life. You catch his drift.
“Mr Miller,” you gasp. “Are you suggesting a date?”
His jaw flickers. “Don’t fuckin’ — call me that.”
“What? Mr Miller?” You laugh. “You don’t like that?”
He stares at you. You clock the change in his eyes; the way they darken, the way his breath pulls — and your brows flick.
“Oh,” you say. “You do like that.”
“Fuck,” he growls. “Stop it.”
“Or…”
“Or we ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he mutters. “Stay here ’n fuck you, instead.”
Your fingers bunch at his shirt collar. You tug him into a kiss, and he meets your mouth with a low, hungry groan.
You slip your tongue to his. His cock stirs to life against you and he groans, breaking the kiss before he loses himself. His forehead tips to yours.
“Go—” he pants, watching you through hooded eyes, “—go get dressed. ‘Fore I change my mind.”
You smirk. Your arms slip from his neck and drop back to your sides.
“What am I wearing?” you ask. “Is this, like — fancy?”
He frowns. “You want fancy?”
“Not particularly.”
He grunts. “Then no.”
You stifle a smile. Tip your head up, quickly, and brush your lips against his jaw. Then you’re ducking out, under his arm, leaving him at the empty window. You rifle through your bag for something date-with-Joel-Miller appropriate and disappear into the bathroom.
—
Joel’s waiting for you when you re-emerge, half an hour later. You look good. Maybe a little nicer than the casual look he’d suggested — slip dress, white sneakers, jacket slouched over your arm — but, fuck it. It’s your first date.
It takes Joel a hell of a lot less time to get ready. You’re pretty sure all he’s done is swap his t-shirt for a flannel and rake a comb — or his fingers — through his hair. The rest of him looks the same. Same jeans, same boots, same belt he’d driven down in. Never one to make a fuss.
He’s sprawled across the bed when you come out. His legs are angled off the side, letting his boots dangle. His hands are clasped across his chest. You’re pretty sure he’s asleep, if his heavy breaths are any indication. It’s kind of adorable, as far as Joel goes. Barely eight o’clock, and he’s passed out on the pillows.
Your phone buzzes before you can wake him. You flip it over in your palm and check the screen.
Hayes: 4 new messages
You ignore the notification. You swipe open your messages and text your dad, instead.
You: made it to san antonio
He responds quickly. Probably been waiting for your update, you think, with a pitiful pang.
Dad: Thx for update. Have fun! Don’t give Joel too much trouble…
You look up from your phone. Look at Joel, stretched out across the sheets. You smile.
You: i’ll do my best
But that’s a lie, of course, because you have every intention of giving him trouble. And you do, when you climb quietly to the bed and straddle his waist.
He blinks himself awake. You roll your hips into his lap and he hums sleepily, hands coming up to grip your sides.
“Nice nap?”
He scowls. “Was just — restin’ my eyes.”
“Oh, sure. Okay.”
You smile. You bend to kiss him and his hands skate higher, up the dress you’ve worn just for him and to the silk-sheathed shape of your breasts.
“Thought I said nothin’ fancy,” he murmurs. His palm splays against your breast. He finds your nipple over silk and swipes his thumb across the fabric.
You gasp. Your hips roll into his.
“Didn’t wear it for you,” you breathe, which is a dirty fucking lie and you both know it. But he doesn’t kick up much of a fuss. His attention is elsewhere — on his hand, gliding over silk and under your dress and to the edge of lace panties you’re wearing for him.
He hooks a finger in the band. You swallow, hard, and your hips jerk in his lap.
“How bout these?” he murmurs. “You wear these for me?”
You bat his hand away. A blush stains your cheeks.
“No.”
“No?” he echoes. He sounds amused.
“No,” you repeat. Your teeth graze your lip. “Don’t — fuck. Don’t sleep with guys on the first date. And I definitely don’t—ah—” He tugs at your panties, and the fabric drags against your clit, “—don’t sleep with them before.”
His eyes flash. You hear him mutter a curse. At least he’s awake now, you figure. He could barely keep his eyes open two minutes ago. Now he’s T-minus ten seconds from fucking the life out of you.
You notice the change in his stare — the shift from sleepy to starving — and you try to wriggle from his lap with a squeal. His finger slips from the band of your panties and his hands curl tight around your hips, holding you squarely in place.
“Keep it up,” he warns, “’n you’re gettin’ yourself off tonight, pretty girl. Which would be a shame —”
He slips one hand back under your dress. Swipes his thumb over damp lace.
“—considerin’ how fuckin’ soaked you are.”
Your breath catches. You rut your hips into his thumb and your smirk twists to a moan.
He drags his hand away before you can use it. Slaps it lightly to your hip.
“Up,” he gruffs. He sits up, off of the pillow, and you crumple to his chest. You wrap your legs around his waist and he gives a playful groan, swinging his feet to the floor while you cling like a koala.
He stands up and takes you with him, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your lips nuzzle in the crook of his neck. His hands drift to your ass, and your dress bunches between his fingers when he gives a gentle squeeze.
“You’re a tease,” you whine, when he sets you down on your feet. You smooth your dress. Flatten your hair with your palm.
He shrugs. You watch him swipe a room key from the nightstand and shove it deep into his pocket. He’s already halfway to the door when he turns to look at you.
“You comin’?”
You huff. You drag yourself across the room and meet him at the door. He holds it open for you and you mutter under your breath.
“Apparently not.”
“Clever,” he drawls. He tips his head to the hallway. “Get your ass out there.”
You roll your eyes, but you do as he says. You hear his shallow chuckle at your back, and the click of the door as he pulls it shut. He joins you in the hallway and slips his hand into yours.
You steal a glance, when you’re sure he’s not looking. You’re pretty sure it’s the first time you’ve ever really seen him smile.
—
When Joel says not fancy, he means really, decidedly, not fucking fancy. He drives you to a spot about fifteen minutes from the hotel, somewhere off the main road, and when he parks the truck you’re convinced he’s lost.
But — no. He cuts the engine and looks expectantly at you.
“Alright,” he drawls. “Out you go.”
“Here?” You cup your hands to the window. Stare out, squinting at the dark. “In this…abandoned parking lot?”
He grunts.
You pull your hands away. Stare at him.
“Romantic,” you say. “I know I said casual, but—”
He rolls his eyes. Leans over, and unclips your seatbelt. Then he cracks his car door and hops out, dusting his hands on his jeans.
“C’mon,” he says, when you don’t move. “‘Less you’d rather starve.”
He turns and walks off. You swear softly and scrabble at your own door, wrenching it open and jumping down to the asphalt. You have to jog to catch up to him.
“You’re supposed to wait,” you pant, when you reach him.
He shrugs. He pulls his car key from his pocket and clicks the lock. The truck chirps somewhere behind you.
“Y’were takin’ too long,” he says.
“You’re a gentleman.”
He looks at you. The corner of his lip curves.
“’N you’re a brat,” he says, cooly.
Your stomach swirls. You try to scowl, shake your head, something — but it’s too late. He sees the way your eyes dart to his mouth. To the silver buckle on his belt.
His smile pulls. He puts a broad hand on the small of your back and your core sparks at the contact.
“S’alright,” he mutters. “Deal with you later.”
Fuck. You almost turn around right there. March him back to the truck, and make him deal with you in the backseat. But you don’t, because — well, because you’re kind of curious, if you’re honest. You want to know what Joel Miller considers a date. And you’d like to see this parking lot adventure through, now that he’s swindled you out of the car.
So you suck it up, and ignore the slick pull between your legs, and follow him over cracked asphalt.
He tugs you around a bend and your eyes go wide. You make a small, surprised sound and turn to look at him.
“Okay,” you say. “I take it back. This is cool.”
He shakes his head. But he looks pleased, you think. Like he’s happy you’re impressed.
And it is cool. Like, surprisingly so. You’re still in a parking lot — graffiti and asphalt and concrete medians — but a huge swath of space has been reclaimed by string lights, and food trucks, and wooden picnic tables. Colorful lanterns on the ground and woven runners on the tables. Music humming from outdoor speakers. And it’s crawling with people — vendors, couples, families. Like a makeshift night market, hidden smack-dab in the heart of downtown.
“How’d you find this?”
He shrugs. He looks annoyingly smug. “Could tell you,” he says. “I’d have to kill you, though.”
You glare at him. Punch lightly at his sleeve. He catches your arm and pulls you close, into his chest, and you bury your nose in his flannel. It smells like him. Warm. Safe. Light. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head and your heart skips.
People can see you. There are a lot of lights, and a lot of people, and a lot of eyes on you when Joel kisses your head. You make eye contact with one couple while his arm is slung over your shoulder. A few minutes later a larger group stumbles past, obviously drunk, and Joel wraps you up into him as they pass.
You almost push him away — out of instinct, and nothing more. You’re half expecting your dad to wander out of the dark. Or Sarah. Or Hayes, and his thousand missed messages.
But they’re not here. They’re a hundred miles away, and you’re alone, and this is — new. This is nice. The closeness. The not having to hide when someone swings in your direction. Him dragging you close, instead of shoving you back. Making you laugh — out loud, with his hand on your waist — instead of muffling your moans in his palm.
It’s so nice it almost hurts. Because it’s not really real, and you know it, and you wonder if he knows it, too. You wonder if he’ll hurt the way you will, when you have to go back home. When you have to hide again.
But you can worry about that later. For now, you can just — be. You can pretend he’s not your dad’s best friend, and you can pretend there won’t be hell to pay if you touch him like this back home.
He strokes your hair back from your forehead. Looks down, frowning slightly, like he can tell your mind has slipped.
“I’m good,” you say, before he can speak. “I just — I like you. I like — spending time with you.”
His brow lifts. He looks bemused.
“Like you too, angel. Figured you knew that already.”
“Yeah, I just — you know.” You wave a hand. You’re not sure what the hell you’re trying to say.
“I know,” he says, gently.
You look up at him. His thumb stills on your chin. He tips your face to his and kisses you.
“Go ’n get a table,” he says, quietly. His lips brush yours. You can taste him: whiskey and cedar. Masculine. Joel.
His eyes drop. His stare rakes over you: your jacket, the slinky, silk slip you definitely didn’t wear for him — over the lace he knows is waiting underneath. You shiver.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. He wrings his head, like he’s trying to focus. “Go. I’ll get us some food.”
You’re reluctant to leave him — especially when he looks this close to breaking, and just dragging you back to the hotel — but you do as you’re told. You find an empty picnic table and beat a teenage couple to it.
You don’t feel like turning your phone on, and seeing god knows how many messages from Hayes — so you look around, instead. You watch a herd of tiny children sprint across the lot, dodging in between food trucks, wielding vanilla cones like little scepters. One of them has dark hair. Tousled, unkempt. He races past you, light-up sneakers thudding on pavement, and you catch a glimpse of big brown eyes.
It makes your heart hurt. You’re not sure why.
“Scoot.”
Joel’s voice. Gruff, gentle. You blink twice and your focus snaps back. You move down the bench to make room.
He drops down beside you with two paper plates. You peek over his hand.
“Tacos,” you say. “Inspired.”
“Just—fuckin’—try ‘em.”
“I’ve had tacos.”
“Not like this.”
“Well, yeah,” you say. “Exactly like this. They all kinda look the same.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re a piece ‘a work.”
You grin. You slide one of the plates in front of you and take a bite. He watches you intently, like he’s genuinely invested — like he really, truly cares whether you like his stupid tacos.
And you do. Of course you do. Because they’re really fucking good. Because he bought them for you.
“Oh, shit,” you mumble. Sauce drizzles to your hand. “You’re right. That is good.”
He rolls his eyes. Leans in, close, napkin in hand, and swipes your wrist clean. It’s weirdly intimate. More so than every kiss you’ve shared since you stepped out of his truck.
He lingers in your space for a second. Long enough for you to watch him scowl.
“See?” he mutters, when he draws back. “‘F you listened more, ‘stead of runnin’ your mouth all the goddamn time — I could show you a few things.”
“It’s one taco. Don’t get a big head.”
He stares at you. He tries — really, really tries — to keep the scowly, stern, I’m so scary thing going. He lasts a solid three seconds before he breaks. His frown crumples. A shallow laugh spills out of him.
“Fuck’s sake.” He shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”
You wipe your mouth with the edge of your napkin. When you’re done you push your empty plate away and lean into his shoulder. You’re making the most of this uninhibited closeness. Touching him whenever you get the chance: little, harmless brushes and soft kisses behind strangers.
You rest your head on his shoulder and look up at the lights. The string above you flickers, muted yellow, and the glow paints Joel’s skin golden.
You sigh. His flannel grazes your lips. His mouth finds the top of your head and nestles in your hair.
It’s been largely innocent up until now. The touches, at least. You’re not really one for PDA — not usually, anyway — but he has you feeling like a teenager again. And he doesn’t seem inclined to stop you, when the flat of your palm slips underneath the table and dusts over his knee.
He only pumps the brakes when your lips graze his ear, scraping soft skin, and you whisper something filthy that only he can hear.
He clears his throat. His gaze flicks to the milling crowd.
“S’it,” he announces. “We’re leavin’.”
You have to stifle a laugh at the sound of his voice. The quiet desperation he masks as command. Turned on. Time to go.
He makes to stand and you squeeze his knee. His body stiffens. His weight drops back to the bench.
“Don’t wanna leave,” you say. You give him your best pout. “I’m having fun.”
You’re teasing. Truth is, you’d race him to the truck right now if it meant you’d get back faster. But you like working him up. You like him riled, by the time he’s fucking you. You like his breathing ragged and his snarl at your back.
He gives you a sharp look. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach.
“Come on.” You’re egging him on now, and he knows it. He knows it. “You take me out, and you can’t even make it past ten?”
There’s a muscle in his jaw going haywire. You watch it. It’s a good gauge of just how fucked you’ll be, later, when he takes back his upper hand.
For now you press him. You’re feeling bold. Maybe it’s the little plastic-cup margarita he’d brought out with your food, or the fact that a hundred people can see you with him, watch you touch him, and for the first time you don’t give a shit.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you say, dropping your voice. Your hand skates higher, under the table — up his thigh, over blue jeans. “I didn’t even — I wasn’t even thinking. It’s, like — it’s way past your bedtime, right?”
A low, low sound escapes his throat. His hand finds yours on his thigh and closes fast around it — just tight enough to stop your moving. Not tight enough to hurt.
“Got a real goddamn attitude tonight,” he growls.
His hand squeezes yours. Harder. Enough to make you whimper, when you imagine those fingers on your throat, instead.
“S’okay,” he murmurs. His hand lets up. Your own fingers tremble on his thigh. “S’alright, babygirl. Gonna take care of it.”
He leans closer. His breath is hot on your skin.
“Gonna fuck it outta you,” he drawls.
The heat in your stomach spills over. Fire drips between your legs.
“Fuck it,” you mumble. “Let’s go back.”
But he’s playing, now. You teased him too much, overplayed your hand, and now you’re fucked. He’s looking at you with those big brown eyes and you can see them go black when he smirks.
“What’s ‘a matter, angel? Thought you wanted to stay out.”
“Joel—”
“Made a whole goddamn fuss,” he says. “Can’t go back now.”
“We can,” you insist. “Yes we can. There’s not even — look. Everyone’s leaving.” You point to the crowd. No one is leaving. “It’s all — it’s closing. It’s done. Let’s go back.”
He doesn’t look. He clicks his tongue, instead. Mock-sympathy.
“C’mon, now,” he says. “We’ll think ‘a somethin’. Keep you nice ’n busy. Few more hours, at least.”
You groan. Your forehead thuds on the edge of the table.
“Fuck, you’re mean.”
You hear him hum his soft agreement. The bench whines when he stands, and then his palm is at your back, gently guiding you up and onto your feet.
“Ain’t the one who started it,” he says. He drapes an arm around your shoulders and leads you away, back towards the truck. His mouth bends to brush your ear. “Could be headed back to the hotel, right now,” he says. “Could be in bed. Could have my head between those pretty legs.”
You swallow.
He pauses. His fingers tap lazily against your shoulder. “Too bad y’were such a goddamn brat.”
You make a quiet, frustrated sound. You know he won’t let up. You’re resigned to suffering in silence, until Joel decides you’ve had enough. Until he decides to drive you back to the hotel, finally, and fuck you the way he knows you need.
“Y’know what your problem is?” he asks, casually, as you approach the car. “Y’got no follow through. Roll over too easy.”
“I don’t roll over,” you huff.
“No? ’N how come every time you run that mouth, try to tease me—” he cracks the driver’s side door. Looks at you. “—you always end up beggin’?”
You’re quiet. You’d bite back, if he wasn’t infuriatingly right. It’s not like you can think of a comeback, anyway. You’re so turned on your mind is hazy.
“Think on it,” he says, cooly. He puts the truck in reverse and throws his head over his shoulder. “Got nothin’ but time.”
You mutter something soft. A curse. A plea, maybe. You watch him turn out of the lot and go the wrong way — not back to the hotel, not back to the room, not back to bed — and you pull your thighs against an ache that won’t quit.
—
He takes you to a bar downtown. Kind of…divey, but fun. Cool. It’d be a hell of a lot cooler if you could actually enjoy it. If you could think about anything other than him fucking you senseless, right now.
You trail him in. Out of the car, down the steps, past the bouncer who checks your ID and not Joel’s.
He posts up by the bar and you join him. There’s one stool left and he saves it for you, standing at your side while you sit and smooth your dress.
You’re attracting looks. A lot of them. The crowd in here is…diverse — college kids, bikers, bachelorettes on the road to blackout. You stand out, in your little silk dress. Joel — in his flannel, and blue jeans, and worn out work boots — not so much.
He flags down the bartender. It’s a miracle he gets served, considering how swamped the bar is. But Joel commands a room, in that cool, quiet way. He taps a lazy finger on the bartop and the bartender comes running.
“Whiskey,” he says. “’N a…”
“Rum and coke,” you say. It’s the first thing that comes to mind.
The bartender nods. Joel slides a bill across the bar and tells her to keep the change.
“Rum ’n coke,” he says, when she leaves to get your drinks. He shakes his head. Chuckles. “You drink like a high schooler.”
“Shut up. They’re good.”
“Uh-huh. Remind me t’make you a proper drink, sometime.”
You shoot him a scowl. But your heart lifts, a little, at the implication that there will be a sometime. You’re always half-expecting him to run again.
It’s hot, in here. Too many people. You shrug your jacket off and spread it out across your lap. You lean your elbows on the counter and frame your chin in your palms as you look up at him.
His head tilts. His gaze drops to the skin you’ve exposed. You catch the almost-imperceptible hitch in his breath, and it makes you smile. It almost redeems the blinding, white-hot burn between your legs that he refuses to acknowledge.
“Parking lot tacos and a dive bar,” you say. “I feel like a princess.”
His eyes drag back to yours. He huffs.
“You wanna go out again, ’n act like a good girl — maybe I’ll treat you like one.”
Your breath snags. A blush tickles the base of your neck.
He pushes his sleeves up, past his forearms. Leans an elbow on the bar to get closer to you. There’s music blaring — some classic rock mix — and by all accounts it should be the only thing you hear. That, and the clamor of too many people and too many drinks. But you’re too far gone, staring at him, and you can’t hear anything that doesn’t start and end with his velvet fucking drawl.
It’s the reason you don’t hear the voice at your back. Not until it’s rasping hot along your ear.
“Hey, pretty lady.”
You start. Your back stiffens. You swivel in your seat to face the sound.
There’s a man there. Two men, actually, crowding the side of you Joel isn’t occupying. They both look trashed. Slurring, bleary-eyed — but sober enough, still, to know what they want. And drunk enough to try and get it.
The one closest to you — crew-cut, square jaw, somewhere between your age and Joel’s — slaps his hand on the bartop. The sound makes you flinch. You can feel Joel bristle at your side. He pulls up, off of his elbow, and straightens to his full height.
“Sorry,” you say, and you hate that you apologize. Hate that it’s reflexive, when they’re bothering you. “I’m — we’re kind of in the middle of something.“
The one with the crew-cut frowns. His friend simpers.
“You don’t even have a drink,” he says. “C’mon. Let us buy you a drink, at least.”
The bartender re-appears, as if on cue. She slides Joel his drink and hands you yours. You wait til she’s gone and tip your glass towards the men. Cheers. Fuck off.
Crew-Cut smiles. His friend shrugs.
“Alright,” he says. “But we can do ya one better.”
His friend rifles through his jacket. He produces a tiny, plastic baggie and passes it to Crew-Cut. Two pink pills rattle at the bottom.
“See this?” Crew-Cut grins. A gold cap glitters on his tooth. He folds the baggie in his hand and nudges yours. “You wanna have a little fun, sweetheart? Look like you know how.”
His touch makes you freeze. Your throat feels thick.
“I’m not—”
There’s a thud — furious, loud — as Joel’s fist comes down on the bar. You can feel it, beside you. The whole counter shudders. Someone four seats down looks up in surprise.
“She ain’t fuckin’ interested,” Joel growls. “Move on.”
Crew-Cut lifts a brow.
“Who’s this?” he laughs. His hand slips to your wrist. “This your daddy?”
Silence. He nods at Joel. “You her daddy?”
“Take your fuckin’ hand off her.”
“Oof. Daddy’s got a mouth on him.” His fingers dig into your pulse point. “Ain’t gonna take my hand off her,” he says. “Think she likes it. What do you think, Dutch? Think she likes it?”
His friend — Dutch — nods stupidly. You try to pull your hand away and your drink wobbles on the bar.
“Fuck off,” you hiss.
“Damn. You got a nasty mouth, too.” He looks up at Joel. “She’s a hot one, huh? Ain’t no way you can handle all that.”
You rip your hand free. Successfully, this time. Your wrist knocks your drink and it goes flying — glass, rum, ice on the floor. Coke splatters Crew-Cut’s jeans and he swears.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ bitch.”
“Shut your goddamn mouth,” Joel snarls.
He slips from your side. You can feel the heat roll off him, when he moves around your seat and stands in front of you, instead. You watch his back. The way his shoulders bunch under flannel; the way his fist flexes at his side.
He’s blocking your view, now. Standing between you and the men. You have to tip to the side to catch a glimpse of Crew-Cut’s glare.
And he’s glaring, all right. He looks pissed. His lip curves up and his gold tooth winks.
“What ya gonna do?” he taunts, when Joel takes half a step forward. The words are slurred. He’s fucking hammered. Probably high, too, if the pills in his palm are any indication. “Huh, big man? Two ‘f us. One ‘a you.”
Dutch nods. His big, dumb hand curls to a lazy fist. Not the brains of the operation, you figure. But still large, and still tall, and still leering with a look that makes you sick.
“You got ten seconds to get the fuck out,” Joel says. He sounds eerily composed.
“Or what?” Another nasty grin. “You gonna fall asleep on me? Bite me with your fuckin’ dentures?”
“Nine,” Joel says. “Suggest you get a move on.”
“Yeah? You suggest I get a move on?” Crew-Cut jabs his head past Joel. Towards you. “That what she tells you when you fuck her?”
Oh, fuck.
“Joel,” you mumble, but it’s too late. He’s closing the distance between Dumb and Dumber before you can even process he’s moved. He leans over the counter in a single, fluid motion and swipes something from behind the bar. You don’t see what it is. Not until he brings it down, to the thin stretch of skin between Crew-Cut’s knuckles, and you catch a flash of silver just before it lands.
You’re lucky this place is so packed, and so loud, and so — well, shitty. Because the shout Crew-Cut lets slip — followed by the horrified yelp from his friend — would be pretty fucking hard to miss anywhere else.
“Holy shit,” you breathe. “Joel—”
There’s a steak knife pinning Crew-Cut’s hand to the counter. Joel’s fingers are wrapped around the hilt. There’s blood where Crew-Cut’s hand rips, dripping heavy to the floor — but it’s not as much as you’re expecting. Not as much as there will be, when he pulls the knife back out.
Your gaze darts to the bartender, at the far end of the bar. Her back is to you, and to Joel, and to the steak knife sticking out of her patron’s hand. It’s dirty. Serrated. Probably giving Crew-Cut tetanus, on top of the stitches he’ll need.
Joel leans in. His hand tightens on the knife.
“C’mon,” he drawls. That velvet voice that makes you ache. Darker, rougher, but — still Joel. “Lemme walk you out.”
He yanks the knife out. You wince. Crew-Cut gives a mangled cry and stumbles back into his friend. Blood gurgles from his palm and drizzles down over his wrist.
“Fuck you, man,” Dutch says. He looks a little pale, but he stands his ground. They both do. “Messed with the wrong fuckin’ guys.”
Joel’s quiet. He slams the tip of the steak knife into the wood bartop, and you watch the handle wobble. The men flinch.
“Out,” he says, softly. “Now.”
Crew-Cut goes first, cradling his hand. Dutch follows with a dumb, dark scowl. Joel trails them both. His boots crunch on glass from your spilled drink.
You get a glimpse of his face, when he turns to you. You’ve never seen it quite like that.
“Stay put,” he mutters. You realize he’s talking — to you, and not the men— and your skin sparks.
You should probably stop him. From — well, from whatever he’s about to do. Escort them outside, murder them, something in between, maybe.
But you…don’t. You just nod, slowly, and swallow back the fire in your throat.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Take your time.”
He pushes both men past you. Crew-Cut mutters something as he passes you. Sounds a lot like fuckin’ slut.
You watch Joel tense in your peripheral. The tug between your legs pulls so taut it almost hurts.
You’re pretty sure it’s fucked up, to want him the way you do right now. You should be horrified, or something. You should look at the blood on the bartop and get the first bus back to Austin.
You definitely shouldn’t just…sit here. You shouldn’t be fighting every urge to slide a hand up the hem of your dress and make yourself cum to the sound of his snarl.
But — fuck it. You’ve done a lot of things you shouldn’t do, this past month. So you watch his knuckles close around the back of Crew-Cut’s collar, and you watch him drag both men across the threshold of the bar. Out the door. Out of sight and out of mind.
You order another drink while you wait. No one bothers you, this time.
And when Joel comes back ten minutes later, alone, with bloody knuckles and a split in his lip — you practically drag him out of the bar.
—
The drive back to the hotel is pretty much silent.
He doesn’t tell you what happened outside of the bar. You don’t ask.
You watch his knuckles grip the wheel, instead. Red. Raw. Ruined. You rub your thighs together and shift in his seat.
He pulls in by the lobby. He puts the truck in park and doesn’t let the gear shift go.
He looks up. At you.
“Are you alright?” he murmurs.
It’s so…gentle. Kind of a jarring contradiction, to the blood splashed on his knuckles.
“Yeah,” you say. Your voice is quiet. “I’m good.”
He nods. But he doesn’t quite believe you, you think, because his whole frame is stiff — when you grab for his hand on your way inside, and when you lean into his side while the elevator comes.
You get in first and he follows, slowly. He stands opposite you and grips the steel handrail.
He reaches for the buttons. Presses 14.
He clears his throat when the doors close.
“‘M sorry,” he says, finally. “You shouldn’t—wasn’t right, what I did. You shouldn’t ‘a seen — had to see that.”
“See what?” You cock your head. “See you beat the shit out of two assholes?”
He looks at you sharply. You shrug.
“That’s funny,” you say, and you’re only half teasing. “I was gonna ask if you could do it again.“
He shakes his head. Swears, softly.
“Ain’t right,” he mutters. “‘F your dad was here, he’d—”
“He’s not here,” you say. A little more bite than you mean.
It shuts him up, at least. He’s silent when the elevator climbs past 4.
“Never seen you that mad,” you say, after a beat.
His fingers tense on the rail.
“I scare you?”
“No,” you say, quickly. “Just never seen it before.”
He watches you. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“You always get that pissed?” you ask.
“No,” he says, after a pause. He looks at you. Then —
“Just don’t like people touchin’ what’s mine.”
Your stomach swirls. The elevator announces floor 9.
“Is that what I am?” you ask, quietly. “Yours?”
He tilts his head. A low, quiet sound slips past his lips. He pushes off the rail and crosses the floor to you, caging you against the wall. The small of your back digs into steel.
“You tell me,” he growls.
His mouth is so close you can taste him. His drawl drips to your skin and paints you red.
You kiss him. Your mouth slants against his and he punches out a sigh. His hands find your waist and crumple cheap silk.
You drag him closer. Your fingers bunch at the front of his shirt. You pop one of his buttons and he groans, licking into your mouth.
You’re so busy attacking his shirt you don’t hear the elevator ding at floor 12. You don’t even feel it stop until the doors are wheezing open.
You freeze. Your lips go slack against Joel’s. You hear him huff and you push at his chest. He stumbles backwards, half a step, just as an elderly woman shuffles inside.
She greets you both politely. You manage a smile and Joel manages nothing.
And then you’re moving again, climbing the last two floors to 14 — and the elevator opens.
“S’cuse us,” Joel gruffs, and practically shoves you over the threshold. You apologize to the woman when you trip over her shoes.
“Sorry,” you squeak.
“Quite the hurry,” she notes.
You have no fucking idea, you want to say. But Joel is dragging you down the hall, and keying open the room, and she’s out of sight before the door can even close.
—
You wonder if he’ll say more, now that you’re finally alone. But when you’re back in the room, and he drops his wallet and his phone and his keys on the desk by the door — he’s clearly not in the mood for conversation. He tips his chin to the bed, and the command is clear. But you still want to hear him say it.
So you stand, stubbornly. His mouth twitches.
“On the bed,” he says. “Right fuckin’ now.”
You take a few steps back, toward the bed. Then you stop.
He growls in frustration.
You ignore him. You point to his bloody knuckles, and to the dust on his flannel. There’s blood on your lip — his blood — where he kissed you with a sliced mouth.
“No,” you say. “No. I’m sorry. I’m not going anywhere til you get in the shower. You look like you just killed someone.”
He scowls. Stares at you, nonplussed.
“You didn’t, right? Kill someone? Or — someones? Because—”
His frown deepens. You watch his eyes narrow.
“Kidding,” you say, quickly. “Sort of. Just — shower. Please. You’re a mess. And those are white sheets.”
He mumbles something unintelligible. He holds your gaze a second longer and then stalks past you, toward the bathroom, still muttering as he fumbles with his shirt.
“What was that?”
“Nothin’,” he grunts.
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
He whips back around. His shirt hangs, half-undone. His eyes glint.
“Said you’re fuckin’ impossible,” he gruffs.
You grin. You flop back onto the bed while he hovers at the bathroom door.
“Better hurry,” you tell him, trailing a hand up your thigh. You bump the hem of your dress and your fingers creep under. “Might get started without you.”
His stare goes dark. His hand drops from his shirt.
“Don’t,” he warns.
You give him a look. Your fingers drift up the seam of your thigh, circling the wetness there. The hem of lace panties peeks over your wrist.
“Don’t…what?”
“Fuck,” he hisses. “The hell’s gotten into you?”
“Don’t know,” you say, innocently. “You? Hopefully?”
His jaw flickers. He swears, softly, and his belt hisses from his jeans. He shrugs his shirt off his shoulders and takes half a step toward you.
You grab a pillow off the bed and hurl it at his chest. It lands with a thud and stops him in his tracks.
“Go,” you say.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
But he does as you say. He turns around; walks back to the bathroom with a low, angry sigh, and you watch his jeans ride low on his waist.
The door clicks shut behind him. You wait for the water to start and then you get up, off of the bed, shedding your shoes and your dress as you cross the carpet. You crack the bathroom door open and slip in.
He doesn’t see you come in. He’s turned away from you, standing under the water with his back to fogged glass. The walls and the counters are slick with steam already.
You step out of your underwear and leave them on the tile. Tug the shower door open, just wide enough to edge through, and join him underneath the spray.
“Hey,” you say, softly.
He turns. Blinks at you. Water streams down his brow and cleans the cut on his lip.
For half a second he seems surprised. And then his gaze evens out and his eyes rake your body.
Your skin heats — under his stare, under the water. You watch him swallow and your stomach does a flip.
“Close the door,” he mutters. “Lettin’ all the steam out.”
You do as he says and slide the glass shut. The added warmth makes your skin sting.
He brings his hands up, to push through soaked hair. Water drips past his knuckles and hits the ground pink.
You take half a step forward and the spray beats at your neck. You lift your hands to his and drag one of them down and he lets you, watching you with quiet eyes. You fold a palm over his knuckles and he sucks in a breath.
You bring his hand up to your mouth. Press a featherlight kiss to the bruise on his knuckle.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t yank his hand back. Just looks at you, with that soaked-black stare.
You gaze up at him, eyes wide. Water drips from your lashes and skates to your cheeks. You part your lips and drag two of his fingers up into your mouth.
He sighs. His half-hard cock stirs to life by your thigh.
His fingers are soaked, from the spray of the shower. Slippery. It means they slide easily into your mouth, and curl wet against your tongue when you take him to the knuckle. Your lips brush the cuts there and he hisses through his teeth.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Easy. Easy.”
He uses his free hand to tip your chin up. To look into your eyes, when you hollow your cheeks and take his soaked fingers deeper. There’s a look on his face you can’t quite read.
“You like that, baby?”
He sounds a little mystified, maybe. His fingers play on your jaw, urging your mouth open wider. You can taste the salt on his skin. The metal tang of blood where his knuckles are raw. The sweet-smelling soap he’s used to clean out his wounds.
You whine, with your mouth full of him. Try to take his fingers deeper when they hook around your lips.
“Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself. “You do.”
He drags his fingers out of your mouth. A string of spit hangs from his fingertips and disappears under the spray.
“Turn around,” he says, softly.
You turn around.
Truth be told, you’re expecting him to fuck you. Finally. What you’re not expecting is the telltale pop of a shampoo cap, and the smell of artificial fruit, and Joel’s broad, bruised hands in your hair, massaging soap to your scalp.
You let a small, involuntary sound slip. You tilt your head into his hands and water splashes your collar.
“Can do that myself,” you mumble.
He hums in response. His fingers dig into your scalp and you moan.
“Know you can, angel.” He works the soap through your hair. Kneads tight little circles at your roots. “But let me.”
You nod, absently. Let him cradle your head in his hands. His fingers pull to the nape of your neck and work at the knots there. Probably the same ones that settled when you leaned over his lap in his truck, this afternoon, and dragged your mouth along his cock.
His hands leave your hair too soon. The excess soap drips down your back and leaves you smelling like strawberries and Joel.
You almost turn back around to face him. But then his hand is on your back, between your shoulder blades, and he’s pushing you forward until your palms kiss tile.
He doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t make you beg for it. You’re sure he would, if you’d never gone to that bar. He’d torture the hell out of you, the way he promised he would.
But you did go to the bar, and now he’s bruised and bleeding and broken, and there’s something to his touch that you can’t quite place. Something different. Something desperate. Like he needs you worse now than you’ve needed him all night.
“You still want this?” he asks, behind your back.
You can feel his cock, soaked and swollen, nudging at the slick skin between your thighs. But you’re pretty sure that’s not what he’s asking about. You can tell, from the drag in his voice. From the way the words stumble down your back and swirl to the drain. You know what he’s actually trying to ask — in that rough, muddled way that only he can muster.
You still want me?
You twist your head over your arm. Look at him under the spray.
“Always,” you mumble. “Always want you. Please, Joel—”
You don’t need to beg him. He listens. He lines his hips behind you and his skin touches yours, soaked and soapy and scalding hot where water runs. He’s taking the brunt of the spray, behind you. It thrashes his eyes and streaks past his mouth, punching the split in his lip. You can hear him wince at your back. Can hear him hiss, when his knuckles squeeze at your sides and his sliced lip buries in the slope of your shoulder.
He’s clearly in pain. And he clearly couldn’t care less, when he tugs your hips back into his and strokes his soaked cock through your slick.
“Fuck,” you breathe. Your fingers scrabble for purchase on the tile. It’s too slippery, too wet, and you have to lean over further to brace your forearms on the wall.
The new angle makes him groan. You’re more exposed, like this. Bent and dripping for him. The head of his cock notches at your entrance and his fingertips twitch on your waist.
He’s not stingy with the foreplay, usually. But his mouth is out of commission, and so are his fingers, and even though you have a feeling he’d do it, gladly, if you asked — you’re so turned on from hours of back and forth teasing and whatever the hell happened at that bar that you’d rather he just —
“Fuck me,” you gasp. Your muscles clench around nothing. The steam from the shower muffles your moan. “Just — fuck me.”
“Relax,” he drawls. “Relax, baby.”
He pushes the tip of his cock into you. Just barely. Making sure you’ll take him, without his mouth or his fingers to ease your way, first.
You squeeze pitifully around the head of his cock. Whimper something that sounds like his name.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. He sounds a little awed. “You’re fuckin’ — soaked. You need it this bad, babygirl?”
You rock your hips back in response. His cock slides deeper, an inch, two inches — stretching you open — and then he’s grabbing at your hips and thrusting all the way in.
You yelp at the intrusion. His hips smack your ass and shove you up against slick tile. You have to push back against him to keep from slamming into the wall — and when you meet his thrusts he snarls.
“Always so — fuckin’ — tight,” he hisses. Something drips to your back. Hot and thick, thicker than water. Blood from his lip, you think, torn open again on his snarl.
“Tell me,” you say, urgently. You wouldn’t ask, usually, but — you can’t think straight. The water is scorching your skin, and his hands are even hotter, and his cock is lighting you up from the inside out. “Tell me what you — ah. Tell me what you did to them.”
His thrusts slow. He drags his cock out of you.
“Who?” he murmurs.
And then he pushes back into you, white-hot and no warning, and your breath punches out of your lungs.
“The—fuck,” you yelp, “the guys. At the — the — ngh, Joel — at the bar.”
He’s quiet. He pulls out again, all the way, and waits until you whine to thrust back in. And then he does it again, and again, over and over, until the slap of soaked skin drowns the sound of the shower.
“Tell me,” you plead.
“Fuck,” he swears. “Fuckin’—sent ‘em home.”
“Yeah?” You swallow a moan. Your muscles clamp down on his cock. “In one — fuck — piece?”
He makes a sound — like a chuckle, or a groan, or something in between. His hand leaves your hip and wraps tight around your shoulder, bracing you against his cock as he pounds you into the wall.
“Just about,” he pants.
You bite down on your lip. His cock rolls against your g-spot and you cry out. The sound fogs the glass and drips to your feet.
Heat drills at your core. Your eyes glaze.
“Fuck,” you mumble. “Fuck, Joel, I’m gonna—”
“Yeah?” His voice rips through you like wildfire. Low, rough, serrated — like that dirty fucking blade he’d left swaying in the counter. “That turn you on, hearin’ all that? You gonna cum?”
You whine. Water rakes down his jaw and splatters your back.
“Bad fuckin’ girl,” he growls. He bottoms out and his hips stall. His cock throbs somewhere deep inside you. “Never been so fuckin’ wet for me.”
Your hands make useless fists on the tile. You stare at the water on the floor and your vision swirls.
“Joel—”
“Go on,” he says. “Attagirl, baby, go on. Lemme feel.”
You’re so tightly wound your whole body almost snaps. You’ve been two well-timed touches away from falling apart since this afternoon, when he shoved his cock down your throat and told you in no uncertain terms to keep your fuckin’ head down.
So when he pushes you over the edge, finally — your knees buckle. You’re lightheaded. Your muscles strangle his cock, bearing down so hard it practically drags his own release out. His hips stumble into yours and he chokes on your name.
His hand lets up on your shoulder when he cums. Without him holding you in place you go limp, boneless — and your forearms slip on the tile wall. He barely — barely — catches you before you sink to the shower floor.
“Woah — hey —” He’s got you, you think, and you can’t really see, with the shower all fogged and your eyes all hazy — but he’s got you. He’s got you. He’s got his big arm wrapped around your tummy, stopping you from crumpling all the way down.
“Okay, easy,” he murmurs. You can barely hear him over the roar of the shower, and the static between your own ears. “Shh. Easy. S’okay. ‘M right here. I got you, babygirl.”
You mumble something that gets lost in the spray. You’re pretty sure it’s his name. And then he’s sinking to the ground, with you, because it’s easier to go down than to bring you back up. He clutches you to his chest as he slumps against the wall. He hits the ground first, before you, so that you land in his lap instead of the floor.
And then he just…holds you. You fold into his chest and you feel so fucking small, all wrapped up in him, with your legs tangled over his and your head tucked under his jaw. He wraps an arm around you and you leave soaked, breathless kisses on whatever bit of him you can reach.
He reaches his free hand up and fumbles for the shower handle. He cranks it, hard, and the water shuts off. A few searing droplets land on your bare shoulder. He kisses them dry and his stubble scrapes your skin.
“Okay,” he breathes. Over and over, until his voice soothes your shiver. You tuck into his chest and your breathing starts to still. “Okay, angel.”
You feel like crying and you’re not totally sure why. Maybe it’s the earth-shattering release he’s just given you, after hours and hours of fucking nothing. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s the fact you can hear his heartbeat, pressed up against your ear, and you can feel it skip when your lips skim his jaw.
“Talk to me,” he says, softly. And then, a little unsure — “Please.”
“‘M fine,” you mumble. The words are semi-slurred. You’re blissed out. You’re tired. You smell like soap, and sex, and you smell like Joel. Or Joel smells like you. You can’t even tell anymore. “‘M good.”
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck. Was that — was I too rough? I — you should’ve said, I should’ve —”
“No,” you say. You shake your head. “No. Was good. You’re good. Perfect.”
You hear him exhale. Short, shallow. Relieved, or amused.
“Okay,” he echoes. Agonizingly gentle. “Alright, baby. Let’s — let’s get you to bed, yeah?”
“Mm,” you mumble. “Yeah.”
You let him lift you. Let him carry you out of the shower, past the glass sliding door and onto dry floor. He sets you down, on top of the closed toilet seat, and sits you there while he finds you a towel. Your head hums. Your skin glows pink — from the shower, from his touch. When he comes back with a towel you let him wrap you up like a burrito, thudding into his chest while he dries you off.
He leans down when he’s finished. Presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“C’mon,” he says, softly.
You look up, bleary-eyed. His stare searches yours.
“Bed?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Think so.”
“Mm. Not tired.”
“No?” You watch his brow lift. “Not tired?”
“Mm. Mm-mm.”
“Okay. Sure.” He takes a breath.“How ‘bout you just humor me, then?”
You nod solemnly, like you’re doing him a favor. You let him tug the towel tight around your shoulders and you stand on your own, this time, wobbling on shaky legs. You lean into his side and he walks you out, into the bedroom and straight into bed.
He pulls the sheets up around your chin. You’re semi-aware of the fact that you’re naked, and you can’t bring yourself to care. You watch him pull on dry boxers from the duffel bag at the foot of the bed, and then he’s climbing in beside you. The mattress dips with his weight. You register somewhere, in the back of your mind, that it’s the very first time you’ve ever slept beside him.
The thought makes you lightheaded again. You nuzzle into his side and he drags you close.
A few minutes pass like that. His breathing slows.
“Joel,” you say.
He mumbles. His voice is rough in the dark.
“Yeah.”
“I had fun,” you say, sleepily. “Today."
He exhales. He rolls onto his side and pulls you close, his chest to your back. His mouth drops to your shoulder.
“Yeah,” he repeats. “Me too, angel.”
“‘Specially when you killed those guys.”
You can feel him roll his eyes. His teeth nip at your shoulder.
“Ain’t kill anyone,” he mutters. “Jesus. Go t’sleep.”
“Mm.” You yawn. “Okay. When you stabbed that one guy, then.”
He sighs. His breath drips down your skin.
“He was a dick,” you say. The words are muffled in the crook of his arm.
You hear him huff.
“Yeah,” he says. “He was a dick.”
You hum happily. Curl up between his arm and his chest. Your ass rubs up on his boxers and you can feel him harden again, already — but he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t roll his hips into yours, or say something filthy, or tighten his grip on your body. He just holds you there, to him, until his breathing drops off and his arm goes limp.
Something flickers in your chest. Something dangerous. You twist quietly in his arms until your chest is brushing his.
“Joel,” you whisper.
When he doesn’t respond you edge closer to him. You rest your nose and your mouth in the crook of his neck.
“I am, y’know,” you breathe. “Yours.”
He doesn’t answer. You’re pretty sure he’s asleep. But later, when you drift off with your head on his heart — you could swear he buries a kiss in your hair.
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Oh. Dear. Jesus.
the fall
13.9k / dbf!joel x f!reader
official dbf!joel playlist
warnings: 18+, minors dni. so much smut. so much angst. dont ask me why this is so fucking long cause i dont know either. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel, fingering, oral (f receiving), face sitting, unprotected p in v, car sex, uhh, maybe more but that feels exhaustive
a/n: y'all thank you so much for the love on this series. i love that people love dbf!joel as much as i do. you have been so beyond welcoming and getting to interact with y'all as i write this is so ridiculously fun. your comments and replies and asks are hysterical. and insightful. your reading comp skills are a thousand times better than mine because you're picking up on things i didn't even know i was writing LMFAO. i love being able to share with you all and i really appreciate you letting me have fun with this. lots n lots of love. to everyone. 🤍 requests incorporated: face sitting, car sex, date night (part 2), maybe something else im forgetting.
this is part 9 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8
masterlist here. kofi here, if you feel like leaving a tip!
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Come here.” He grabs your hips. Not — rough, but a long way from gentle. He drags you higher, over his stomach and the flat plane of his chest, maneuvering your hips until they’re dripping over his mouth. You suck in a breath. Your legs tremble. You’re trying not to drop your whole weight to his face. But the grip he’s got on your thighs, pulling you down — says that’s exactly what he wants. “Sit down,” he growls.
Of course Hayes is her fucking nephew.
Of course he is.
You’ve never had, like, the best luck in the world. Not when it comes to guys, at least. Seems like you draw the short straw pretty often. Like, say, falling for your dad’s best friend — and not the toned, tanned, age-appropriate boy whose footsteps you can hear in the hallway.
This is your fault, you think. This is your mess. There are plenty of attainable, nice, non-asshole guys out there who aren’t even tangentially connected to your father. Zero relation. Couldn’t pick him out of a lineup if their lives depended on it. But — no. Just your luck you’d fall for Joel. Just your luck you’d sleep with Hayes. And just your luck they’re about to be in the same room, at the same time, after you’ve ghosted one and fallen head over heels for the other.
Laurie can sense the change in tone. She puts her mojito down on the desk, next to Joel’s drafting papers, and you have to kick the urge to run over and grab it. Just — down that shit, before Hayes can even make it to the office. Whatever gets you drunk fast.
You settle for standing stiffly in place. You swallow your spit and she frowns.
“You okay, honey?” she asks. “You look pale.”
A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Not the humorous kind, but the — I‘m fucked, can you believe this shit? — kind.
She stares at you. Joel, too. He looks completely useless, standing there beside the desk. He’s got his drafting pencil clutched in his hand. The lead point digs into his thumb.
The door creaks open. All three of you turn to watch Hayes walk in. There’s a plastic Walgreens bag in his hand, hooked around his little finger, swinging aimlessly when he steps into the room. He’s wearing the same shoes he’d worn when you’d dragged him to your room. White vans. Slip-ons.
Your head swims.
“Hey, Laurie,” he says.
He doesn’t see you right away. You’re in the corner, a ways from the desk, standing stock-still in his peripheral. You’ve got this hindbrain, idiotic notion that if you stay completely, totally still, maybe he won’t see you.
“I got the stuff you wanted,” he says. You’d forgotten how smooth his voice is. How polished and pitched, compared to Joel’s. “They didn’t have those Vitamin C tabs, but—”
You’re not looking at him. But you can tell — from the sudden, stifling silence — that he’s clocked you. You and Joel.
The AC kicks on, full-blast. His Walgreens bag starts to wave. The plastic crinkles and the sound makes you flinch.
“What the fuck?”
“Hayes!” Laurie laughs, awkwardly. “Good lord. That how you greet people?”
He’s staring at you. Full-on. You can feel his eyes, burning a brand where yours drop. You drag your gaze from the floor and your cheeks blaze.
“I’m sorry,” Hayes says. He sounds like he’s short-circuiting. He sputters a little — turns from you, to Joel, to Laurie, then back to you again. “Sorry. What — sorry. What the fuck?”
“Hayes.” Laurie tuts. Her brows pull. “Knock it off.”
He ignores her. His gaze narrows. The shock is wearing off, you think. You can see something angrier making its way in.
“What are you doing here?” he asks you. He points at Joel. “What is he doing here?“
Laurie answers for you. Which is good, since you’ve got nothing.
“He’s a contractor,” she says. She sounds miffed. “He’s helping me with the Austin house. What — what is this? You know each other, or something?”
“Yeah,” Hayes bites. “Or something.”
His gaze shifts. He looks at Joel and Joel holds his stare.
More silence. The tip of Joel’s pencil shoves deeper into his thumb. You hear the lead snap, bouncing off onto the carpet, and you swallow. Your throat runs dry.
Hayes sniffs.
“Can I talk to you?” he blurts.
He turns away from Joel. Looks you dead in the eyes.
“In private,” he adds.
Laurie frowns. “Hayes—”
“It’s fine,” you say, quickly. You don’t look at Joel. “It’s fine.”
Hayes nods. He shoves the door back open and holds it for you — ever the gentleman, even still. Even when you sidle past him and feel him bristle.
You catch a glimpse of Joel right before the door shuts. You can’t quite read the look on his face.
“It’s through here,” Hayes clips.
He leads you back down the hallway, to the kitchen you’d passed on your way in. You stare at his back and try to train down your blush. You think up ten thousand excuses, in the thirty-second walk to the kitchen — I wasn’t ghosting you, really, I’ve just…had my phone off? Been busy with work? Didn’t want to seem desperate? — but you’re a terrible liar. And the truth is you have been ghosting him. You’ve been ghosting the hell out of him.
So you’re silent. You make it to the kitchen and he sits at the island, digging his elbows down into the marble. He gestures toward a free stool and you follow his hand.
“You wanna sit?”
“Uh—” you blink, “—no. Thanks. This is fine.”
This being the awkward, statuesque pose you’ve taken up by Laurie’s sink. About as far from Hayes as you can get without turning tail and sprinting back down the hall.
You’re expecting him to say something. He dragged you in here, after all. Out of the office. Away from Joel.
But he’s quiet. He just…looks at you. Meadow-green eyes and an angled frown.
So you talk. Because the silence is fucking unbearable.
“So,” you say. “She’s your, um…”
“Aunt.”
“Yeah. Right.” You nod. Gnaw at your lip. “Kind of a fucked up coincidence.”
You hope, maybe, that he’ll take it in stride. Light up the kitchen with that megawatt smile.
But he doesn’t smile. If anything his frown gets deeper.
“Yeah,” he agrees, finally. “Kind of fucked up.”
“So when you said you were going out of town for the weekend…” you gesture weakly to the kitchen. “You meant, like…here.”
He looks at you. Cocks his head. His hair’s grown out, in the week or so since you’ve seen him. You think it looks better like this. Makes him look more like a man.
“So you did get my texts,” he says.
Fuck.
“I just read them, like, today,” you say, which is not technically a lie. Sure, you’ve been watching the notifications flood in all week with a lingering, existential sense of doom — but you hadn’t actually opened them until today. Until five minutes ago, when he was already crunching up the drive.
He shakes his head. His jaw goes tight, like he’s chewing on a word.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “With him? Like, what — what is this?”
“It’s — fuck. It’s Joel’s thing. He’s — he’s building a house for your aunt, or something. I’m just along for the weekend. It’s a — it’s like a favor, for my dad. He was supposed to be here instead of me. Fuck, I obviously — I didn’t know she was your aunt, otherwise I never would have tagged along. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Hayes repeats. He sounds hollow. He looks bitter. His eyes scrunch up when you mention Joel’s name. “Makes it kinda hard to ghost me when you’re standing in my kitchen.”
You don’t love the tone. You’ve been waiting since your first date — which had been, like, just a little too perfect — for something uglier to rear its head. A scrap of Southern-money, Stanford-bred entitlement, maybe. And there it is. Right there. My kitchen.
Your aunt’s kitchen, you want to bite. But this is still a job, and you’re still here for Joel, and you’re on thin ice as is. So you keep your mouth shut.
“Sorry,” you say, awkwardly. “I should’ve…said something.”
Which is not entirely untrue. You should have cut him loose the second you’d landed back in Joel’s bed. But you just…hadn’t. You’d watched his texts come in, and let them fester unopened on your phone. You let the notifications pile up. Maybe because, in some ironic twist of fate, you didn’t want the confrontation. Or maybe some part of you liked the safety net. Liked the fact he’d still be there, on the hook, if Joel ran away again.
So you mean it, when you tell him sorry. At least some part of you does.
His shoulders relax. His tone softens. That ugly look goes out of his eyes — that one that surfaced when you first mentioned Joel — and you start to think maybe it was never even there.
“Look,” he says, “if you didn’t wanna see me again, that’s fine, I just —” he huffs, “I would’ve appreciated, like, a heads up, maybe? Or just — a sign of life? So I know you didn’t fall off the face of the earth?”
“Yeah,” you say, blankly. “Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t — I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.”
He’s quiet. You both are. He taps his fingers on the marble and works his tongue over his teeth.
“It’s okay,” he says, after a beat. “I just — I thought we had a good time. And I don’t usually, uh…”
He looks at the counter. His cheeks turn pink.
God, they’re so different. He and Joel. You have no idea how you landed somewhere between the two of them. One can’t make eye contact when he talks about sex. The other won’t fuck you without it.
Hayes looks back up. He’s struggling.
“I’m just trying to say — it was good. For me, at least. All of it. Not just the…you know. Not that that wasn’t good. It was fucking — it was amazing. But the rest of it, too. The dates. You. All of it.”
He shrugs. His eyes are wide.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It was nice, that’s all. I thought we clicked.”
“We did,” you say. “We had fun.”
It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. You leave out the part where you click a whole lot better with the contractor in his aunt’s office.
“I’m sorry,” you say, again. You mean it a little less this time. “I just — things changed.”
“Okay, but — in a day?”
“Sorry?”
“You changed your mind in a day?” He laughs now — like, chuckles, and it makes your skin prickle. “I mean, it just seems — we have these great dates, and then we have great — sorry — great sex, and then, like, you ghost me? You change your mind that fast?”
Fuck. Off.
You flip up your hands.
“It’s not — it wasn’t that serious, Hayes! We went on two dates. Two. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have — I should have said something. But it happens. It fucking — it happens all the time.”
You get the sense, from the look on his face, that it doesn’t happen all the time to him. Handsome, whip-smart, rich as sin. White sneakers and a pearl-white smile. He doesn’t get ghosted.
“It happens?” His voice is strained. He wants to snap at you, you can tell. You almost wish he would. “So you — what? You sleep with a lot of guys, never call them back?”
“What?” You push yourself off the sink. Your skin flushes pink, then red. “Is that what I just said? Jesus. What the fuck?”
“Sorry.” He rakes his hands through his hair. Shakes his head. “Fuck. Sorry. I’m not trying to — I just — I liked you. I still like you. I thought maybe I did something, or…”
“You didn’t do anything,” you clip. There’s still some heat to your voice. Some edge. You’re not sure it sounds convincing.
But he nods. Swallows. He looks a little kicked-puppy like this, sitting on a stool with his sneakers dangling. His eyes meet yours and you wish they were brown.
“Guess this looks pretty dumb now, then,” he says. He lifts his wrist off the counter and your heart sinks.
He’s still got that tacky five-dollar bracelet wrapped up on his wrist. The one you’d found together, at a thrift store in downtown Austin, when neither of you wanted your date to end. He’d gotten you a matching necklace. And you’d taken it off, the very next day, on your way back from Joel’s house. It was the last piece of Hayes that had lingered on you after Joel had fucked out the rest.
“You took yours off,” he says.
“Oh.” You blink. “I…”
“No, don’t,” he says. He waves you off. “I’m sorry. That’s — it was just a stupid thing.”
He unclasps the bracelet. It sloughs off his wrist and clatters to the marble. The little turquoise pendant glares up at you.
“No,” you say. “It wasn’t stupid. It’s…”
You trail off. You touch your hand to your neck where the necklace had been, almost like an afterthought.
His eyes follow your hand. He tracks your fingers where they land and splay at your collar.
And then he frowns again. Deeper. Darker.
“What is that?” he asks. His voice is soft.
You stare at him. Your hand stills under your throat.
“On your neck,” he says, when you’re too quiet. “What is that on your neck?”
It doesn’t click right away. What he’s talking about. Your fingers drift up your throat, rising with his stare, and that’s when you feel them. The red, raised marks on the side of your neck, hallway hidden by your hair. A handprint much bigger than Hayes’s.
“What the fuck.” He stands up. Pushes the stool back. “Who — what the fuck?”
You bring your whole hand up to the side of your neck. You press your palm into the shape of Joel’s and try to hide the mark when Hayes steps closer.
His eyes are on fire. He’s got a weird look to him, like he doesn’t quite know whether to be angry or confused or concerned or something all in between. He gets uncomfortably close and you shrink against the sink.
“Move your hand,” he says. “Let me see.”
“Stop it. Step back.”
“Move your hand,” he says. He’s trying to peer under, over, around your palm. Trying to see where Joel’s fingertips stretch out across your throat. He’s really close now, close enough to touch you, and he lifts a hand to try and pry yours away.
You yelp. Your hand jumps from your throat and you bat him away.
“Hayes, stop,” you bite. “Don’t — fucking touch me.”
He drops his hand immediately. Takes half a step back. You’re both panting. The mark on your neck is on full display.
“It’s nothing,” you say. You swallow thickly. Stare him down, while you both catch your breath. “It’s fucking nothing.”
But it’s not nothing. You can both see that it’s not nothing.
“It’s probably — it’s probably from you,” you say. “From the other night.”
“I didn’t do that to you,” Hayes says. His voice is cold. Distant. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
He’s breathing hard. His eyes are dark.
“Who?” he asks.
“No one,” you say. And then — “it’s none of your business.”
He huffs.
“Fine,” he says. “When, then? Cause — fuck. You were with me, like, just a few days ago. And you say you’ve been here, with your dad’s fucking — friend all weekend, so —”
Stop, you think. Fucking stop.
But it’s too late. He gets it. That Stanford education at work.
You watch his brow furrow, and you can physically see him connect the dots. The weekend trip. The fresh marks on your throat. The clinging cologne that sticks to your skin.
“Holy shit,” he says.
Your heart seizes. There are two options here, really — deny, deny, deny, — or scorched-earth it. You try for the first.
“Hayes,” you say, “it’s not—”
“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t even say it.”
There’s a pause. You swallow.
“I didn’t say anything,” you say, quietly.
Hayes shakes his head and then shakes it again. His hair tousles, like a waterlogged dog.
“You fucked him,” he says, and it’s not a question. He says it like he’s convincing himself. “You — him?”
You’re quiet. There’s not much to say.
“Fuck me,” Hayes mutters. “Jesus.”
He shoves his hands to his hair. Holds them there. “What the fuck,” he mumbles, half to himself.
“Hayes—”
“No, I mean — what the fuck? Seriously! There’s — he’s — he’s, like, a thousand years old! What the hell are you doing?”
“What the hell am I doing?” Anger roils at the pit of your stomach, hot and thick. “Why is that your fucking business? What are you, my dad?”
“You’d probably like that, right?”
“Oh, fuck off. What the fuck? Are you — are you serious?”
“He’s — isn’t he your dad’s friend? Your fuc—your neighbor?” He stares at you, wide-eyed. “Jesus Christ. Is that why you haven’t texted me?”
“Oh my god,” he says, when you don’t respond. “Is that why you were wearing his fucking shirt? The morning after we—?”
So he does remember that. You were hoping it might have slipped his mind. The same way you’d slipped into bed with him, beside him, wrapped up in another man’s shirt.
You’d let him touch you, in the middle of the night. Put his hands under a shirt with Miller Contracting splashed in print across the back. It was fucking filthy then, and it’s filthier now. Now that he puts it together.
“Is that why he threatened to hurt me?” Hayes asks. “Told me he’d break my jaw?”
You’re silent. He takes that as a yes, because it is one.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “Fuck. So I was — what? Like a — a game, for the two of you? Or—”
“It wasn’t a game,” you bite. “It’s — fuck. It wasn’t a game. Just leave it alone.”
“Leave it alone? He’s as old as my dad. You’re — look at your fucking neck. He’s —”
“He’s what?” Your pulse hammers. “He’s — what?”
Hayes is quiet. You should be relieved, really, but the silence is worse. The way his eyes squint, like he’s working through a jigsaw.
He takes a few steps back and you welcome the space. Your legs feel weak. Your head is swimming. You fold your hands on the lip of the counter and the marble stings your skin.
He’s pacing. You watch him out of the corner of your eye. You wonder how long you’ve been out here. You wonder if Joel will start to worry. If he’ll burst out of the office, and thud down that hallway in his heavy work boots, and find you in the kitchen with your fists on the counter.
You think about those guys at the bar last night. How they’d spoken to you. How Joel had…taken care of it. And then you think about Hayes — what Joel would do to him, if he could hear him right now — and the thought is weirdly comforting. It probably shouldn’t be.
Hayes’s voice rises. You lift your head.
“Are you okay?” he’s saying. You get the sense from his tone that he’s already asked.
You blink.
“Am I okay?”
“Yeah,” he says. He’s breathless. His fists bunch at his sides. All tense, corded muscle. “Like — are you — is he making you do this? Is this, like — is he —?”
You stare at him. You’re not actually convinced you’ve heard him correctly. It’s that insane of a question. But you clock the look on his face — totally, completely sincere — and then you’re fucking furious.
“What?”
“I can help you,” Hayes says, and you almost punch him in the face. “Seriously. Like, if this is — if he’s —”
“What the fuck,” you breathe.
Silence. Your fist balls on the marble. And then he opens his fucking mouth again, and you snap.
“I just—”
“Jesus, Hayes!” Your palm comes down flat on the counter. The slap makes him flinch. “What the fuck is wrong with you? No. No. He’s — no. Of course he’s not.”
“Of course? What do you mean, of course? You’ve got a—” his voice lowers. Wavers. “You’ve got a fucking handprint on your throat,” he says. “It’s sick.”
“It’s not sick.”
“No, ‘cause you don’t see it,” Hayes says, and he sounds so fucking condescending you want to scream. “Cause you’re — you can’t see it. You’re too — I’m sorry, but he’s clearly taking advant—”
“I asked him to,” you bite.
That…shuts him up. He stops pacing. You put a hand to your throat and trace the shadow of Joel’s fingers.
“I wanted it,” you say. “I fucking asked him to.”
He’s quiet. He looks at your hand. At the ghost of Joel’s.
“You didn’t ask me to do that,” he says, softly.
“No,” you say. “I didn’t.”
He doesn’t say anything. Not to that. You push yourself off the counter.
“Are we done here?” you ask, at the exact same time he decides to open his mouth again, and ask —
“—are you in love with him?”
You freeze. Full stop.
“Excuse me?”
“Is this, like…” he shakes his head. “I’m just trying to figure out what the fuck is going on here. Like, you think you’re in love with him, ‘cause he tells you what you wanna hear? Makes you feel special? Cause this is — this is textbook. This is Psych 101. This is —”
“Fuck off,” you snarl.
You shove past him. Like — shove. Your shoulder clips his and he grunts. He reaches for you before you can pass and snakes a hand around your wrist.
“Hey,” he says. “I care about you. I’m just trying to help—”
“Get your hand off me,” you say.
His grip slackens. You rip your hand out of his. He tries to say something else — calls your name, when you stumble past him — but you’re already halfway down the hallway. You’re making a beeline for the office — for Joel — and when you get to the door your fingers tremble. You wrench the handle with your heart stuck in your throat.
The door shoves open and spits you inside. You stand there panting, feet planted on carpet, and the look on your face must be downright desperate because Joel’s already on his way to you.
He stops abruptly a few feet from where you stand. Like he’s just remembered Laurie’s there, behind him, watching you both with a frown. You wish she would fucking go. You wish everyone would just — go. You wish Joel would touch you.
“Hey,” he says, softly, “are you…?”
Hayes is on your heels. You can hear his slip-on sneakers squeaking down the hall. You look up at Joel and shake your head.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Joel, I’m sorry.”
He frowns. His brows knit. His fingers flex at his sides, inches from yours, and you know it’s taking everything in him not to reach out and touch you.
“Hey,” he repeats. Low. Slow. “Hey. What —?”
The door rocks back open. Hayes’s squeaky footsteps hover at the threshold. You can hear his breath at your back, short and shallow. It pulls when he sees Joel.
Joel’s gaze lifts. He looks past you, at Hayes, and the muscle in his jaw flinches. He doesn’t know what happened — he wasn’t in that kitchen — but the look on your face is enough. He looks about ready to strangle someone, client be damned.
The silence stretches. Laurie clears her throat.
“Okay,” she says, in that two-mojitos-deep twang, “look, I’m not sure what’s happening—”
Hayes interrupts her. He shoves his index finger at Joel.
“This is who you want to hire?” he asks, and it’s so petulant, so boyish that it makes your head spin.
Laurie laughs awkwardly.
“He’s supposed to be the best,” she says.
“Is he? Is he the best?”
There’s a monumental silence. Hayes’s accusatory finger shifts: from Joel — to you.
“Let’s ask her,” he says. “She’d know.”
Your head snaps up. You open your mouth to fire back — are you fucking serious right now? — but Joel beats you to the punch.
“That’s enough,” he snarls. “That’s fuckin’ enough.”
You wince. So much for polite, yes ma’am Joel, who’d turned down Laurie’s offer of a drink at the door. This is the Joel from the bar last night. The Joel with a knife in his hand and a spark in his eyes.
“Hayes.” Laurie again. Sterner, now. “You wanna tell me what the hell’s going on here? How do you know each other?”
“Oh, well. That’s a funny story,” Hayes bites. His voice says it’s not very funny at all.
He’s glaring at Joel. You thought they were the same height, that first night you met Hayes. But three feet apart, staring each other down — Joel looks a hell of a lot bigger. And a hell of a lot meaner.
“He wants to break my jaw,” Hayes says, with a crooked, angry smile. “Right?”
Joel huffs.
“I’m sorry?” Laurie says. “What?”
Poor Laurie. You almost feel bad for her. Just wanted to build her damn house.
“Joel?” she says. “Is that — is that true?”
Joel is silent. He takes a breath, and the exhale is ragged. He’s pissed.
“Or maybe he’d rather choke me out,” Hayes says. His nose is all scrunched up, again. “That’s your thing, isn’t it?”
The blood goes out of your face. You feel sick.
“We’re done here,” Joel says.
And then he is touching you. He’s got his hand on the small of your back, big and warm and safe, and you’re vaguely aware of him herding you toward the door.
Laurie says something. She sounds confused. Maybe a little angry.
Joel ignores her. He leaves everything on the desk — his pencils, his blueprints, his papers. He leaves everything except for you.
Hayes scurries to stand in the doorframe. His stupid sneakers squeal on hardwood.
“You don’t have to go with him,” he says.
Your face burns. Hayes reaches out; tries to graze your wrist again. You flinch.
“Don’t touch me,” you hiss.
Joel’s hand tightens on your back.
“It’s not right,” Hayes says. “He’s — guys like him, they’re not —”
“You don’t know a fucking thing about guys like him,” you say.
You can’t be in this house for one more second. You rip yourself away — from Hayes and from Joel — and hightail it down the hallway. Back through the kitchen, back through the foyer, past Hayes’s spare white sneakers tucked in the entryway.
Out the front door. Down the steps. Onto the gravel drive and up into Joel’s truck.
It’s unlocked. You climb into the passenger seat and slam the door shut.
And then — finally — you let yourself cry. You put your feet up on his seat. You rest your heels on the edge and bury your face in your knees. Your hands curl on the leather cushion.
You take heaving, panicked breaths and stare at the floor between your legs. You don’t look up when Joel storms out the front door, a few minutes after you, and jogs to the truck with his keys in his hand.
He doesn’t get in the driver’s seat. He comes around the truck instead, to the passenger side, and tugs open your door.
He doesn’t touch you. He just stands there, boots planted in gravel, until you lift your head from your knees and look at him.
“Hey,” he breathes.
He looks shattered. You wonder if it’s because of you or the job.
The job you just fucked.
“I’m sorry,” you whimper.
His face slackens. He looks heartbroken, now.
“Oh, baby girl,” he murmurs.
He leans in. He puts a broad hand on the back of your head and pulls you into his chest, into the soft, worn cotton of his flannel, and you breathe in his scent. His heart beats under your cheek. Slow and safe and steady.
“‘M sorry,” you mumble. Your voice is muffled in his shirt.
He holds you closer. Tighter.
“It ain’t your fault,” he murmurs.
But it feels like it is. It feels like it is. And you could swear he feels stiff, when he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. When he tucks you back into your seat, and walks around the driver’s side, and pulls out of the driveway with a tight look on his face.
You watch the house blur in the rearview. The wheels stop crunching, and the gravel runs to road, and the added silence makes your chest hurt.
You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. You lean your temple on the window and stare at the street. He turns onto a highway and you watch the double-yellow lines streak by in silence.
You don’t know what he’s thinking. If he’s giving you space, or if he’s seething at the wheel. He’s impossible to read and you can’t think straight. You feel like shit. So — naturally — you assume the worst.
That it’s your fault, even though he says it’s not. That he hates you, even though he held you hard enough to steal breath. That he’ll run away again.
He flicks his blinker on and the sound startles you. He pulls off the freeway and stops at a red.
“I didn’t tell him,” you say. It just — comes out. It seems important that he know. “Hayes. I didn’t say anything. He — he saw my —”
You gesture weakly to your neck. Joel tracks your hand in your peripheral.
The light turns green. He doesn’t go.
“I didn’t tell him,” you repeat. You need him to know. You tried to keep it a secret.
He’s quiet. The car behind you honks.
“Go,” you say, dully.
He goes. He makes a right, back in the general direction of the hotel, and you take his silence for anger. You take his white knuckles on the wheel for pissed, not protective.
“Can you say something?” you beg. “Please?”
He swallows thickly. You look up at him, briefly, and he’s got the same expression scrawled across his face that he’d had that night, at your dad’s house, after he’d fucked you senseless in the kitchen. When he’d told you that he couldn’t do this. When he’d left you in the dark.
You can handle Hayes. You can handle the embarrassment of — whatever the hell that last hour was. But Joel running away, for the second time in as many weeks — that you can’t take. That is too much.
So you run first. Or you try to.
He turns onto a busy street, lined with shops and signs and moms pushing strollers — and you yank at the car door. It doesn’t give. The stupid fucking auto-lock.
Joel glances over at you. His brows knit.
“Let me out,” you say.
He blinks. You tug the handle again.
“Fuck,” you swear. Your cheeks are hot. Your breath hitches, and you don’t want to cry again — not when you’ve just fucking stopped — but you can feel it coming. Rising up in your throat. “Can you just — let me out?”
He says something. He sounds a little surprised, a little concerned — but you’re not listening. You’re pulling on the car door and your breaths are coming fast and thin. The truck is still moving, and Joel’s voice is slightly raised, and you think he’s telling you to stop but you can’t hear him right.
“Let me out,” you repeat. There are tears on your face.
You’re a little surprised that he listens to you. He slows down. Pulls over on the curb, alongside a packed sidewalk — and you’re unbuckling your seatbelt before he can speak.
“Just—” He reaches halfway over the center console and then stops. Freezes, like he can’t quite tell if he should touch you.
You push at the door and this time it gives. It’s too much, it’s too fucking much — Hayes’s words in the kitchen, and his hand on your wrist, and this feeling you can’t shake, now, that Joel is gonna run. It’s too much. You need — you need some fucking air.
You jump out of his truck and your feet hit pavement. You make it ten feet down the sidewalk, sucking in dry, Texas air — before you hear his car door slam. Before you hear his heavy footfalls as he runs to catch up. And then his hands are on you — big, rough, familiar — grabbing you, turning you, wrapping you up in his arms.
“Woah — hey.” He clutches you to his heart and you ball your fist in his flannel, push at his chest, but there’s no strength to it. You want him to hold you.
And he does. Right there in the middle of the side, in broad daylight, with his truck parked haphazard on the curb. His keys dangle from a finger, locked somewhere behind your head.
It takes you a minute to register what he’s saying. Over and over and mumbled in your hair.
“It’s okay,” he’s breathing. “I gotcha. S’okay.”
“It’s not okay,” you say. You sound fucking miserable, with your voice in his shirt. You don’t even recognize the sound. “You’re gonna run.”
There’s a pause. His hands loosen and he pushes you back, just far enough to search your face.
“Run?” he says. “Who’s runnin’?”
“You,” you whine. “It’s a fucking — it’s a mess, with Hayes, and the job, and I —”
His brow furrows. The corner of his lip crinkles up.
“I ain’t runnin’ nowhere,” he says, softly. “You’re the one runnin’. Damn near jumped out the truck.”
“Yeah, cause you — you looked so angry, I thought —”
“Angry?” His whole face softens. He shakes his head. “I ain’t angry, angel. Not at you.”
Your lip trembles. You’re not sure what to say.
“C’mere,” he murmurs. He pulls you in again and you go willingly, burying your face in his sleeve. It’s a far cry from the way he’d held you this morning, with a hand around your throat and his cock nestled inside you. This almost feels closer.
“‘M right here,” he’s saying, again and again in the crown of your head. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
You rest your chin on his chest and look up at him. Your breathing evens and then stills. He’s not running. He’s not going anywhere. He’s right here, holding you, with his hands on your body and his mouth in your hair. He’s right here.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble, for the millionth time today. “I don’t — Hayes, he fucking — the stuff he said. He got in my head.”
You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t ask you to.
Instead he just says — c’mon, — in that intoxicating drawl, and slips an arm around your shoulder. He starts to walk and drags you close, into his side, unwilling to let you stray even when he’s on the move. You stumble to keep up. It’s an awkward angle and you’re too close to walk comfortably, but you don’t pull away. You don’t want to.
He leaves the truck half-cocked on the curb and ducks into the nearest store he finds. A little coffee shop, with all-white seating and a lavender sign. String lights strung out across the ceiling. Decorated cookies in the glass display. Your vibe. Not quite Joel’s. But he leads you in all the same.
He parks you at an empty table and orders for you. Coffee in a to-go cup and one of those stupid cookies, with black and white frosted wings and an orange-frosted beak. A penguin. It’s such a dumb, sweet gesture that it almost makes you smile. You almost feel better.
He doesn’t say much — never been too good at saying much — but he seems determined to make you smile. To convince you that this — none of this — was your fault.
He digs a spare, stubby drafting pencil from the pocket of his jeans. He leans over the table and grabs your coffee, still half-full, and you protest weakly when he drags it to his side.
He tips the cup and scribbles something with the pencil. You nibble on the edge of your stupid penguin cookie while you wait for him to pass it back.
He slides the cup back across the table. You squint at his addition, and it makes you smile. An actual smile. Then it makes you laugh. You swipe dried tears from your cheeks and hold the cup up to the light.
“What the hell is that?” you say.
He looks mock-wounded. He tucks the pencil away and nods to the cup.
“S’you,” he says. “Y’know. Tried to capture the — the snarky look, ’n everythin’.”
You stare down at his drawing. It’s like the world’s worst stick figure, with your name scrawled in pencil underneath.
“It’s terrible,” you tell him.
“Nah, it’s — it’s abstract,” he says. “Y’ain’t lookin’ at it right. Here—” he takes the cup back, hoists it up, and you laugh harder, “—see?”
“Oh, yeah. No. Much better.”
He smiles. His eyes sparkle. He’s trying so fucking hard to make you happy — the way he knows how, with anything but his words — that it makes your heart hurt. You were sprinting down the sidewalk fifteen minutes ago. Now you have to bite your tongue to keep from letting slip you love him.
He hands your cup back. You reach out to take it and your fingers brush his.
“I’m sorry,” you say, again. For this mess. For almost running. For assuming you would.
“Stop apologizin’,” he says.
“I was supposed to help you this weekend,” you say. “You were supposed to get that job. And I feel like — I feel like I ruined it.”
“You didn’t—” he lowers his voice, “—you didn’t ruin anythin’.”
“Yeah, but — I kinda did? I mean — I only slept with Hayes cause I was pissed at you, and then I never called him back, and now he fucking hates you, and he thinks you’re — he thinks you’re crazy, and his stupid rich aunt is gonna —”
You’re breathing hard, again. He stops you.
“Stop,” he says. He reaches across the table. Closes your hands up in his. “Stop.”
“Don’t care ‘bout the job,” he says.
“Yes you do,” you mumble. “We drove all the way out here.”
“Care ‘bout you,” he says. He leans back in his seat. Rakes his hands through his hair. “Fuck. I don’t — I care ‘bout you.”
You’re quiet. You swallow a sip of coffee.
“And if I…if I did cost you the job?”
“You didn’t,” he says. A beat passes. He looks at you and sighs. “But you’re worth a whole lot more ’n a job.”
There’s a long, delicate silence. You take another sip and set the cup down on the table.
You sniff. Nod.
“That’s really corny,” you say, finally.
He pauses. Blinks. And then he laughs, and you do too, and the tension clinging to your shoulders diffuses. He told you it was okay — that everything was okay — and maybe it is. Maybe it will be.
“Fuck you,” he says, with that crooked half smile. “Was tryin’ t’be nice.”
“Don’t,” you say. “It’s weird.”
He shakes his head. Rolls his eyes.
“Someone’s feelin’ better,” he says. But you can tell he’s relieved.
You hum.
“C’mon, then,” he says. “Let’s get outta here.” He motions toward the fairy lights. The happy, purple paintings on the wall. “Place kinda creeps me out.”
“I’m not finished,” you say, and he shoots you a look. He gives you hell, but he likes when you talk back. He likes the attitude. Likes it a whole lot more than muffled tears in his flannel.
“’S a to-go cup,” he drawls.
He stands up. Swipes your coffee, so you’re forced to follow him. He hands it over when you’re back on the sidewalk and you wrap your palm around his scribbled, shitty drawing. You trace his pencil strokes with your finger and swallow back I love you for the second time today.
You climb back into his truck and shove your coffee to the cupholder. He pulls off of the curb with a groan and you watch him while he drives.
“Where are we going?” you ask. “Back to the hotel?”
He shrugs.
“Up t’you,” he says. “Finished earlier ’n I expected.”
You swallow back a pang of guilt.
“No real reason to stick around,” he says. “Could just drive on back to Austin. Make it back by dinner.”
He looks quickly at you, and you try to read his face. Is that what he wants? Cut the trip short?
“Or,” he drawls, and your pulse spikes, “we could—”
“Yeah,” you say. You don’t need to hear the rest. “That one.”
He grins. Laughs. “Y’didn’t even hear the pitch,” he says.
“Don’t care,” you say. “Long as we stay here.”
He’s smiling at you, but you think there’s something in his stare. A twinge. You’d stay here forever, if it meant more time alone with him. You wonder if he feels the same.
“Alright,” he says, softly. “That’s that, then.”
You lean back against his leather seat. You ride in comfortable silence for a few minutes, down quiet, sleepy roads and residential streets — and his scribbled stick figure gazes up at you from the cupholder. Your heart swells. You twist the lid aimlessly and shift in his seat, squirming against the all-too-sudden tug between your legs.
Maybe it’s just your pulse on a comedown, now that Hayes seems more like a memory and less like a threat. Maybe it’s the way Joel wrapped you up in his arms on the sidewalk and refused to let you go. Maybe it’s the shitty little sketch that winks up at you now, where his hands said what he couldn’t.
It’s something. Something makes you desperate for his touch, right now, now that the shock of the world’s worst morning has diluted.
He turns down an empty street. The sun blazes across the dashboard.
“What d’you wanna do?” he asks. His drawl is sweet, syrupy. It melts on your skin like sunlight. “Could go back t’the hotel. Could go to the riverwalk. Used t’go there with Sarah, in the summers. They got a boat tour, s’posed to be —”
“Pull over,” you say.
He looks over at you. Frowns.
“What?”
“Pull. Over.”
“Why?” he asks, and you could swear he sounds distressed. “We just went over this. I ain’t chasin’ you again—”
“Joel,” you say, and something about the way you say his name makes him pause, “pull over.”
He gets it. It clicks. He pulls the fuck over.
Your seatbelt is off before he’s in park. You’re scrabbling at your pants and he’s doing the same, whipping off his belt, untucking his flannel, shoving down his zipper with rough, heavy hands.
He leans down and tugs his seat back as far as it’ll go. Makes space for you between his chest and the wheel, when you climb over the console and straddle his lap.
You need him so badly you can’t see straight. You can’t even wait to get back to the room, with the bed and the shower and the couch that he’s paid for. You’re like teenagers. Except you never did this as a teenager, because you were never this fucking desperate.
He lifts his hips. Shoves his jeans and his boxers down in a rushed, messy motion. He’s got his cock out already, by the time you climb across to straddle him. Not wasting any time. He looks as desperate as you feel.
Your knees punch the seat on either side of his lap. Your panties drag along the head of his cock and you wonder when you got this wet — at the coffee shop? Before that? When he stopped you on the sidewalk and held you in his hands?
He has the same thought. The tip of his cock slides over soaked cotton and he groans.
“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs. “Shoulda said somethin’. So fuckin’ wet f’me.”
“Please,” you tell him. Your breath skates along his neck. Trickles down to his collar. “Joel. Please. I need—”
His thumb grazes your clit. He bears down gently and you gasp.
“Tell me,” he says. He sounds urgent. Rough. He strokes you over soaked, scrappy fabric and something white-hot swirls at the pit of your stomach.
“Need to feel you,” you say. It tumbles out broken, like you’re begging, and you think maybe you are. You just want him close. You just want him here.
“Fuck,” he groans. He tips his head back. His hair is plastered on his forehead, where it’s been pressed against your collar. His eyes are glassy, wild. He looks like a mess already, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.
You think he needs it worse than you do. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything, cause he’s reaching to yank your panties aside and you can’t fucking think straight. You rut uselessly in his lap and he holds you still, one hand on your waist and the other fumbling at cotton. His finger catches the edge of your panties and you whine something close to his name.
You’re making a mess in his lap. Leaking onto his thighs, his seat. Your nails scrape his scalp and he mumbles something by your throat.
“Hold—ngh. Hold still,” he says. He’d usually demand it. But this time he just sounds desperate: desperate for you to listen, so he can fuck you faster. Maybe it’s your urgency he’s feeding off of. Or maybe the morning was just as bad for him as it was for you — or worse, if that’s even possible — and he’s not in the mood to issue any orders.
He drags you down against his lap and his cock slides through your slick. He gives a shallow thrust up and nudges your swollen clit.
“N-need it this bad?” he pants. His voice is strained. There’s sweat on his brow. The setting, your urgency — it’s fucking with his head. It’s making his cock twitch, and his stomach pull, and you watch through hooded eyes as he swallows back a moan. “In the fu—fuckin’ car, baby girl? Right on the f—fuckin’ street?”
He shoves your panties further aside. His knuckle strokes up your seam and heat curls your skin.
“F-fuckin’ filthy,” he breathes. “F—ah.”
You can’t wait any longer. You’re impatient. He told you he was right here, when he held you on that sidewalk, and you want to believe him. You want him to prove it. You want him right here, right now, closer than close.
You sink onto his cock before he can guide you, grinding your hips down into his lap. His head flies back against the seat. His thighs tense. Whatever mumbled, half-formed thought was on his tongue gets swallowed up in a moan.
He lets you take the reins. For a little while, at least. You ride him as best you can in the limited space his truck allows. Your head brushes the ceiling and your knees leave divots in his seat. The glass fogs, and the air goes thick, and the little evergreen car freshener that dangles off his mirror can’t do much to mask the smell of sex.
You can tell he’s not gonna last long. You could tell before you buried yourself on his cock, and you can certainly tell now. His nails dig into your waist, lighting up your skin, and your breath punches somewhere by his head.
“Fuck, baby, slow,” he growls. “I ain’t—ain’t gonna last.”
“It’s — fuck, it’s fine,” you mumble, and it is, it’s fine, you want him to mark you up and spill inside you and you don’t fucking care about anything else. “Joel, I don’t care, just—”
Your head rolls back. His cock throbs inside you and your hips stutter on his lap.
“It’s fine,” you repeat, “please, just fucking—please.”
He hisses through his teeth. His hands slide to the top of your ass and he squeezes. You mumble his name and your body goes slack, folding into his, content to let him take over if it means you can stay nestled in the crook of his shoulder.
He gets a good grip on your ass and thrusts up into you. It’s a deeper, sharper angle than the one you’d managed, bouncing on his lap — and it makes you yelp. You bite down on his shoulder and get a mouthful of flannel.
He likes that. You can tell. He rumbles deep at the back of his throat and his cock stumbles into you.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. He thrusts up into you and drags you down at the same time, hitting something deep inside you. It’s cramped in here, and your knees ache, and his thrusts are frantic, like he’s clawing at the edge — but it’s fucking — good. It’s right.
Heat pulls across your skin. Dances low at the base of your stomach. Your hand shoots from his hair and slams against his window, grasping at glass. You’re this fucking close, and then —
Joel cums. Hard. No warning, no break in the frantic way he’s fucking you. His cock pulses inside you, mid-thrust, and his breath snags in his throat. His grip on you goes tight, so tight it’s almost painful — and then he slackens. All of him. Slumps back against the seat with his cock still speared inside you.
“Shit,” he’s mumbling. He blinks, hard. He looks as surprised as you. “I don’t—”
You kiss him. It’s messy. Tongue and teeth and shallow breaths that you swallow with your own. But it shuts him up. His hands rake up your ribcage and you clench around him, squeezing his half-hard cock. He groans. He breaks the kiss and pants.
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, angel, s’too — too — fuck. Too much.”
You smile softly. Nip at his jaw. You slide off of his cock and his groan sends a pang between your legs. A not-so-subtle reminder that you didn’t quite cum.
Joel can read your mind. He looks up at you, while you straddle his lap. Pushes a strand of damp hair back from your forehead.
“M’sorry,” he says, a little sheepish.
“For…”
“For cummin’ like a teenager,” he says. “I don’t — you fuckin’ — you do somethin’ to me.”
He swallows. You smile softly.
“Mm. A good something?”
He huffs. You drop your head to kiss his neck and he strokes his hands up your back.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “A good somethin’.”
You hum into his neck. His hands still.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t even — did you…?”
You pull back. Search his face.
“Yeah,” you lie, after half a second. You’re not sure why you lie. He’d take care of the ache between your legs in two seconds flat, if you told him to. But you just — you want him to feel good. He’s had enough disappointment for one day, you figure. “Yes.”
He looks at you funny. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. But he doesn’t push it. You lean to kiss him again and he cups your face in his hands.
He leans down to pull the seat forward with you still straddling his lap. Your back hits the steering wheel and the horn blares.
You jump at the sound.
“Fuck,” you mumble.
He laughs.
“Go on,” he says, helping you clamber back to your seat. “‘Fore the neighbors come out.”
He drags his jeans back up while you settle in your seat. Re-does his zipper and his buttons. He leaves his belt on the floor, coiled somewhere by the brake pedal, and he doesn’t bother tucking his flannel back in. He rakes a hand through his hair and it still comes out tousled.
“Jesus,” he mutters, with a glance in the mirror. “You made a fuckin’ mess.”
You shake your head. Roll your eyes. But he does look wrecked, thanks to you, and you’re smiling when he puts the truck in drive. You pull your pants back on and push the ache between your legs out of your head and tell yourself it’s fine — you don’t have to cum every time. You can let him be the mess, once in a while.
He looks over at you, nestled in his seat. He leaves one hand on the wheel and drapes the other on your thigh. Squeezes, gently.
“Good?” he murmurs.
Kind of a loaded question. You don’t know if he’s asking about the frantic, heady car sex, or the hot fucking mess that came before it, or just — all of it, in general.
“Yeah,” you say, quietly. You put your hand over his. Trace the fading bruises on his knuckles. “Good.”
—
The second half of the day is significantly better than the first. You almost forget about Laurie and her stupid white-sneaker, white-knight nephew.
Joel takes you back to the hotel to change, because it’s muggy as hell and all your clothes smell like sex — and you pick out a sundress that makes him swear. He puts on the same t-shirt you’d stolen from him this morning, and you’re willing to bet it’s cause it still smells like you. And then he rakes a comb through his hair, and when he looks a little less wrecked and a lot more presentable he takes you back out.
He suggests the riverwalk and you couldn’t care less, so you ditch the truck and walk the three blocks there. It’s hot out, and humid, but he holds your hand the whole way there. So it’s worth it, you think. You’d walk six more blocks and be a whole lot hotter if it meant you could keep him this close.
And — when you get there — you have to admit he was kind of right. It is cool. There’s live music playing everywhere you look. People with guitars, and mariachis, and keyboards on colorful carpets. Open-air restaurants sprawled on the water’s edge. Packed boats drifting by on black water.
He’s two for two on date locations. You tell him as much while you walk.
He smiles. You think he looks proud of himself.
“You really never been here?” he asks. He lets your hand go. Drapes his arm around your shoulder, instead.
You shrug. “Maybe on a school trip or something,” you say. “But, like, way back. Nothing I remember.”
He grunts. He leans into you; kisses the crown of your head, and your heart sparks.
“Show ya around, then,” he drawls. “Make sure you remember this time.”
You don’t think that’ll be a problem. Every second of the last two days is burned like a brand on the inside of your brain. The way he tastes, the way he smells, the sound of his voice when you kiss him awake.
You press closer into his chest. “Don’t think I’ll forget,” you say, softly.
—
You walk until the sun sets. He even convinces you to get on one of those stupid tourist boats that drags a lazy route up the river.
“I look like a tourist,” you whine, when he drags you onboard.
“You are a tourist.” He takes his phone from his pocket and points the camera at you. You scowl. Mostly to hide the smile that’s creeping up your throat.
“Smile,” he says.
You try to scowl deeper and you crack. He snaps a picture when you laugh — a couple, you think, of you against the river in that flowy little dress — and smiles half to himself when he swipes back through them.
The boat starts down the river, slow. It’s kind of nice, actually. It’s cooler on the water, and the lights from nearby restaurants make the surface shimmer. You push yourself off the railing and hold your hand out for his phone.
“Lemme see,” you say. “The pictures.”
He swipes his phone open and shows you. You cup a hand to the screen and squint.
“You need to work on your skills,” you say. “My eyes are closed in half of these.”
He grunts.
You go to hit delete on the worst ones and he practically rips his phone away. Tucks it back in his pocket.
“What?” you say. “I’m just — lemme get rid of the bad ones.”
He looks at you. Frowns.
“Ain’t any bad ones,” he says, and he sounds so sincere it makes your heart hurt. “Not ‘a you.”
Your cheeks heat. You shake your head.
“Fuck off,” you mumble.
He gives you a crooked smile. He puts his chest to your back and loops his arms up around you. You wrap your hands around the steel rail, watching the water, and his chin comes to rest on your shoulder. His stubble grazes the curve of your jaw.
“I mean it,” he says, after a minute. You can see his reflection when you stare down at the water. Interspersed with twinkling lights. “Y’look — you’re beautiful.”
You thought it was enough he called you pretty, way back on the Fourth of July. This is something else entirely. This is soft and warm and almost shy, whispered gently over water.
You turn halfway in his arms. When you catch him in a kiss he murmurs low against your lips.
“Joel,” you say.
“Yeah, angel.”
You look at him. Swallow. If you did work up a nerve, you’ve already lost it.
“I don’t know,” you mumble.
He’s quiet. His fingers stroke back your hair.
“S’okay, baby,” he says. “I know.”
—
He takes you to dinner, too.
After the boat. When the sun is gone, and the air is cool, and your skin is flushed pink from his touch. You pick a random place — the first one you see, with a chalkboard menu set out by the river — and take a table outside.
He gets a whiskey and you get a cocktail. One of those fun fruity ones, with the little pink umbrella floating on top. He teases you, mercilessly, until you shove the straw into his mouth and tell him to try. And then he shuts up.
“See?” you say. More than a little smug. “It’s good, huh? Better than your stupid whiskey.”
He frowns. Takes an unhappy sip of his own drink.
“Shut up,” he says.
You laugh.
The rest of dinner is comfortable. Easy. He talks about Sarah and he asks about school. He asks a lot of questions — like, a lot, as far as Joel goes — and you think he just likes to hear you talk. He’s got a quiet, happy smile scrawled across his face when he listens to you. Like a cat in the sun.
And then — of course — his phone rings, just as you’re finishing up. He sets his fork down on his plate and stares at the screen.
“Your dad,” he says, flatly. He shows you the phone and you frown. Shrug.
He picks up. Pulls the phone back to his ear.
“Yeah,” he says.
You put your own fork down. Watch his face, while he talks to your dad. He doesn’t give much away — the occasional sniff; a short nod of his head, a tap of two fingers on the white tablecloth. You’re not sure why your pulse is pounding.
“Yeah,” he says, again. “Sure. It was fine.”
There’s a long silence. Joel scratches at his stubble.
“Dunno,” he says. “’S a big job. Said she’d get back t’me.”
You look at the ground. Your face heats. Joel says something else — a few more things, noncommittal and stereotypically short — and hangs up. He stares at you across the table.
“What’d he want?” you ask, dully.
“Checkin’ in,” he says. “Wants t’know ‘bout the job.”
“Mm.” You push some food around. “What are you gonna tell him? When we get home?”
“Dunno.” He blinks. “I’ll think ‘a somethin’.”
You nod.
“Hey,” he says, softly. “S’okay.”
“Yeah,” you say. You nod again. Lift your gaze, to look at him. “Yeah.”
Your own phone buzzes. You glance down at your lap and Hayes’s name lights up the screen.
“Fuck,” you mutter.
“That kid again?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Fuck. I’m just — I’m just gonna block him.”
Joel nods. You swipe your phone open and navigate to Hayes’s contact. You block his number and then delete his whole text thread — just like that, without even reading whatever shit he’s just sent.
“There,” you say. You put your phone down on the table, face-down. Lean back in your seat, and swirl your pink umbrella. “Should’ve done that a week ago.”
Joel hums. He takes a sip of whiskey and watches you across the table.
“What’d he say?” he asks, quietly. “Today. At the house. When you — ‘fore you came back in the office.”
“Hayes?”
Joel nods.
“Oh,” you say. You swallow. “I mean — nothing. It was just — he was being a dick.”
“But it bothered you,” he says.
“Not — I mean, yeah, but not —” you fumble, “—it doesn’t matter.”
“Matters ‘f it bothered you.”
You’re quiet. Joel is, too. Hayes’s voice rings in your ears.
It’s sick.
“He…” you poke the pink umbrella in your drink with your pinky. “I don’t know. He said you were…”
Your waitress crops up at your table like a gopher. She re-fills your water, then Joel’s, and there’s a pregnant, suffocating silence. You smile politely and wait til she goes.
You reach for the water. Your fingers tremble on the glass.
“He said a bunch of shit,” you say, quietly. “That it was — sick, what we’re doing. That you’re — that you don’t actually lo—I mean, that you’re not—that it’s not real. That this isn’t real.”
Joel is silent. You shake your head.
“It’s just bullshit,” you say. “He’s — it’s just bullshit.”
He blinks. Settles back against his seat. Your eyes drag up to his, and there’s something pleading in your stare.
“It is bullshit, right?” you ask. “I mean, this is — it’s real, right?”
He swallows. You watch his breath catch in his throat.
“It’s real,” he says, softly. “You’re—”
His jaw flickers. You watch him wrestle with the words.
“It’s real,” he repeats. “It’s a fuckin’ — it’s a mess,” he huffs, and he almost smiles, “but, yeah. Fuck. It’s real. Ain’t nothin’ as real ’s this.”
You take a breath. Laugh, lightly. His fingers touch yours, splayed out across the table, and your skin sparks at the contact.
“Fuck,” you mutter. “Kind of a day, huh?”
He shrugs.
“Rough start.” He smiles. “Think we saved it, though.”
You grin. Bury your nose back in your drink. The check comes and he pays, with the same worn, weathered wallet he’s had since the dawn of time — and then he stands and takes your hand. He leaves a crumpled tip on the tablecloth and you take the long way back to the hotel — up the bank and along the river, so he can watch your face under the moon and your reflection in black water. And so he can drag you close, and kiss you, and tell you you’re beautiful again and again and again when the stars paint you both silver.
—
You do eventually make it back to the hotel. Eventually.
You don’t want the night to end, so you pretend you’re not tired, but the truth is you’re exhausted. It’s been a fucking day. You kick your shoes off, and your dress, and you tug another one of Joel’s shirts over your head. And then you take one look at the fluffed-up duvet, and the thousand pillows stacked like ski hills — and you curl up on the sheets like a kitten.
Joel’s right behind you. He climbs up beside you in just a pair of black boxers and the mattress dips under his weight. You stretch out and move closer, wriggling into his chest. He strokes thick fingers through your hair and you feel him hum.
He reaches for the remote with his free hand and clicks the TV on. That stupid hotel information channel blares quietly. Color swims across the duvet.
“Mm,” he mumbles. “What d’you wanna watch?”
“Don’t care,” you yawn. You turn your face out of his chest, a little, to squint at the TV. “Haven’t watched cable TV since I was, like, five.”
You can feel his eyes roll. You smile into his skin. He draws you closer to his side and flips aimlessly through channels.
He pauses on one. American Pickers. You can’t even see the screen, the way you’re buried in his side, but you’ve spent enough time with your dad to know this shit when you hear it.
“No,” you say, sharply, when you feel Joel perk up. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Thought you didn’t care,” he says.
“Yeah, well.”
“You ain’t even watchin’,” he complains.
“No.”
He grumbles. Keeps surfing.
“Storage Wars,” he says.
“No.”
“Ooh,” he says — like an actual, genuine ooh — “Pawn Stars.”
“Oh my god,” you groan. You turn further into his chest. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Alright,” he says. “Jesus. Fine. Here.” He clicks at the remote. “Here’s fuckin’ — don’t know what the hell this is.”
You lift your head. Sigh in relief. You snatch the remote from his hand and crank the volume.
“Fuck yeah,” you say. “Say Yes to the Dress.”
“Oh, Christ,” he mumbles. But he doesn’t put up a fight. If you weren’t pressed so tightly against him right now you’re pretty sure you’d see him smile.
You watch for a while, too tired to talk but too stubborn to sleep. You draw lazy circles on Joel’s stomach with the tip of your finger, dipping occasionally to skim the waistband of his boxers. He tenses up when you do that. Every time, like a reflex. His skin prickles and his breath pulls, and then you drag your hand back and he relaxes.
He strokes aimlessly at your hair. His heart beats hard and strong under your cheek. He makes an inane comment every few minutes, directed at the screen, and you stifle your laugh in his chest. The bride on-screen tries something on — some cream, fishtailed monstrosity — and you feel Joel shake his head. She tries on another and he grumbles.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Poor lady. Got no goddamn taste.”
You giggle. Your nose scrunches in his skin. His arm tightens, clutching you closer, and he buries a kiss at the crown of your head.
“Mm,” he mumbles. “Somethin’ funny?”
“You,” you say. “You’re cute.”
“I’m cute?”
“Yeah.” You drag a finger down his chest. You pause at the hem of his boxers and he stiffens almost instantly. “You’re cute.”
He twitches, almost imperceptibly. Your hand drifts lower, just a little bit lower, and he sucks in a breath. His cock swells against fabric.
He stops your hand when you reach for his lap. Wraps your wrist up in that soft-steel grip.
“’N you’re a liar,” he says, softly.
Your brows furrow.
“I’m a—”
“Liar,” he echoes. He cocks his head. Rolls his tongue across his teeth. “’N not a very good one, either.”
You blink. You’re about to ask him what he means when he pins your trapped hand to the mattress and rolls on top of you. The TV drones somewhere behind him.
He gathers up your other hand and pins them both above your head. He’s so fucking big, all of him. Just one of his palms folds easily over both of your wrists. You squirm a little, yelping his name, and he ignores you. His shirt rides up your hips when you wriggle in the sheets.
“Joel,” you mumble. You’re not so sleepy anymore.
He spreads your legs with his knee. His free hand slips between your thighs. You’re not wearing any underwear — just his shirt, and nothing else — and the realization makes him swear. He swipes his thumb up your slit, gathering slick, and his eyes go dark when he feels how fucking wet you are. How wet you’ve been all day, since you almost — almost — came in his car.
“Asked you ‘f you came, in the car today, ’n you said yes.” He rolls his thumb over your clit and your hips buck into his hand. “But that ain’t true, is it?”
You say something incoherent. He presses down with his thumb, lighting up a thousand nerves, and you bite so hard on your lip you taste blood.
“No,” you squeak.
“No,” he echoes. “Poor baby. You’re fuckin’ soaked.” The pressure on your clit lets up, and he cups your cunt with his warm hand. Your hips roll. You grind into the heel of his palm, desperate for friction, and he gives you fucking nothing.
“Why didn’t you let me take care ‘a you?” he whispers.
“It’s—” you squirm. He holds his hand stubbornly still, buried between your thighs, letting your slick soak his fingers.
“Just wanted — wanted you to feel good,” you say. And it’s true. You just wanted to be close. You just wanted him.
He’s not having that, though. Of course he’s not having that.
“Don’t feel good ‘less you cum,” he says, softly.
You’re quiet. His black eyes search yours.
“S’okay, angel,” he murmurs. He drags two fingers through your folds and crooks them at your entrance. “Let’s fix it, yeah?”
Your hips jerk. You wriggle uselessly, rutting into his palm. Your trapped wrists whine under his hand.
He fucks you slow with his fingers. Excruciatingly slow. You can feel his pulse, when his wrist flexes between your thighs. He splits you open on his knuckles and you welcome the stretch.
Your nails dig into your palms. You’d scratch him, if you could touch him. But you have to use your words — beg him over and over to go faster, deeper — and he doesn’t fucking listen. He likes watching you squirm. Maybe this is what you get for lying.
“C’mon,” you whimper, “Joel, please—”
He goes even slower, if that’s possible. His fingers curl deep inside you and he pumps a lazy, languid rhythm.
“Fuuuck,” you groan. You push up against his hand; try to fuck yourself on his fingers, but you’re pretty much pinned. The hand on your wrists makes sure of that.
“Please,” you repeat. “No more lying. Won’t do it again, I swear to g—god, Joel, fuck, — please—”
He drags his fingers out of you. You throw your head back and try not to curse him out.
But then he’s letting your wrists go, and rolling off of you, and shuffling down the sheets to sprawl out on his back.
You blink. Rub at your wrists. He pats his chest — come here — and you climb into his lap a little uncertainly. His cock strains against his boxers. It nudges your ass when you straddle him, prodding you through cotton, and he bites back a groan. Butterflies swarm your core.
“C’mere,” he says. Pats his chest again.
You hesitate. You’re not really sure what he wants. You shuffle forward a little, off of his lap and away from his cock, and hover over his stomach. He huffs.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Come here.”
He grabs your hips. Not — rough, but a long way from gentle. He drags you higher, over his stomach and the flat plane of his chest, maneuvering your hips until they’re dripping over his mouth.
You suck in a breath. Your legs tremble. You’re trying not to drop your whole weight to his face. But the grip he’s got on your thighs, pulling you down — says that’s exactly what he wants.
“Sit down,” he growls.
“I don’t —” You hesitate. The ache between your legs burns, and his mouth is inches from your cunt, and you want to sink down onto his tongue so fucking badly but you’ve never actually done this before. Not — not like this.
“I’ve never...”
“Sit down,” he repeats. His drawl goes straight to your core. “’N make yourself cum.”
Your breath sharpens. Stills. He parts his mouth — licks his lips, like he’s starving — and the gesture is so obscene it almost makes you moan.
You can’t think straight. The throb between your legs is borderline painful. So — fuck it. You sink down, onto his mouth, and —
“Holy fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—”
He’s busy. His tongue is buried in your folds, licking up your sea, and his nose bumps your clit. The contact makes your hips roll, almost involuntarily. You grind against his face and he rewards you with a low, hungry sound at the back of his throat.
He drags his mouth away for a split second.
“Do that again,” he says.
You hesitate. He doesn’t. He puts his hands on the backs of your thighs and rocks your hips forward, against his lips and his tongue and his nose, setting a rhythm that makes you tremble. When you’re sure he’s not gonna suffocate, or — when you kind of stop caring whether he does — he takes his hands away and you do it yourself. You put your palms out on the headboard and roll your hips into his mouth.
And when you start to stumble a little, and the heat in your core pulls so tight you almost snap, he helps you. He dips the tip of his tongue into your cunt. Lets you ride him like that, with his soaked tongue licking deeper.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “F—feels so f-fucking good, Joel, fuck, I’m gonna—”
He hums his approval, with his tongue still buried in your cunt. You cum across his face and he fucks you through it, lapping you up with soaked lips and dark eyes. It’s filthy — it’s filthy — and when you open your eyes long enough to look at him he’s completely fucked. His cock is straining at his boxers, somewhere underneath you, and you’re sure it must be downright painful at this point but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or he just doesn’t care.
You start to lift your hips off his face and he tugs you back down. You yelp.
“One more,” he says.
He wraps his teeth around your swollen clit. Applies gentle, gentle pressure. Enough to rip his name from your throat.
“I—fuck,” you pant. “I can’t.”
“Yes you can,” he murmurs. “Y’owe me, angel. One for this afternoon—” he licks a stripe up your seam, and you writhe, “—’n one for tonight.”
Your head tips. You brace shaky hands back on the headboard.
This time he does the heavy lifting. He pays exclusive attention to your clit until you’re squirming, and chanting his name, and it’s this close to being too fucking much. He pulls you right to the edge and holds you in place with his hands on your hips. When his tongue slides inside you again, dipping warm and wet and wicked into your cunt — your second orgasm hits you so hard you see white.
He doesn’t wait for you to come down. He flips you over right as you fall apart and drags his boxers down. His cock slides inside you and you’re so fucking soaked he bottoms out in a single thrust. You whine his name, somewhere between your own shaking, shallow breaths. He manages a few frantic thrusts, but he’s already dripping pre-cum, and he’s impossibly hard, and your muscles are choking his cock. The end of your orgasm drags out his own and he spills inside you with a moan. He kisses you, hard, and you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. His cock throbs inside you. You squeeze around him and he groans into your neck.
You’re vaguely aware that the TV is still on, blaring somewhere in the background. Say Yes to the Dress is long over. Chip and Joanna Gaines are demolishing a lake house on screen.
He kisses you again. Slips out of you with a shallow breath. He rolls over onto his back, panting softly, and you nuzzle into his side.
A few quiet moments pass. You put a palm to his chest and watch his breathing even out. He strokes a pattern up your back and you melt into his touch.
“Um,” you say. “That was…”
His fingers still over your spine.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “tell me the fuckin’ truth.”
You shift. You lay your chin on his chest and stare up at him.
“Or what?” you say. “You’re gonna do that again? Cause if that’s the punishment…”
He shakes his head. You tip forward to kiss him and his stubble rakes your jaw.
“Impossible,” he mutters.
“Shut up.” You smile into his mouth. You sink back against his chest, and you’re so fucking tired, all of a sudden. Your bones are heavy. You drape your leg over his and try to shuffle even closer. “You love it,” you slur.
There’s a pause. Your brain jolts awake, and you think maybe you might have said too much. The wrong thing. You love it. You love me.
But then his hand is on your back, again. Stroking lazy, aimless patterns. And his voice is honey in your hair.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”
—
You drive back to Austin in the morning.
Joel buys you a coffee on the way back, and lets you listen to your music, and this time he sings along. Reluctantly, at first. But you wear him down, the way you usually do. You crank the volume on some shitty pop song until the windows on his truck start to tremble. You watch his scowl twitch to something like a smile.
You make record time getting home. You kind of wish there was traffic. Like, the bumper-to-bumper kind that drags a ninety-minute drive into an all-day affair. The kind that would normally make you want to rip your hair out. But you fucking wish for it, now, because then you wouldn’t have to leave him so soon.
You wonder if he feels the same. He’s almost impossible to read, and it’s not like he’s keen on sharing. Getting him to express an emotion is like pulling out a tooth.
But he’d been quiet, this morning. Quieter than usual. He’d held you tighter than ever, when you’d woken up in his arms. Kissed your lips, and your neck, and your shoulder. You’d pretty much had to shove him off you, when you’d finally decided it was time to shower. And even then he’d followed you, into the bathroom and into the water, watching you with puppy-dog eyes and a sad little scowl. You’d let him shampoo your hair with silent fingers and wrap you up afterwards, in a towel and then in his arms.
So, yeah. He might not say it, and you don’t press it, but — you think he’s bummed. You think he’ll miss you.
You’re almost done with your coffee when he gets off the freeway. He pulls onto your street and you shove it in the cupholder, next to his scribbled cup from yesterday. You’d never thrown it out. His stupid drawing still stares up at you.
Your heart tightens. He pulls into your driveway, behind your dad’s car, and puts the truck in park.
He squints at his watch. Frowns.
“He’s home early,” he says, with a nod to your dad’s car.
You shrug.
“Maybe he called in?”
“Your dad?” Joel scoffs. “That’d be a first.”
You shrug again. You’re kind of preoccupied, trying to say goodbye to Joel. You don’t really give a shit if your dad called in or not. But for whatever reason Joel seems intrigued.
“I’ll check on him,” you say. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Yeah,” Joel says. He sounds weird, you think. Strained. “Sure.”
He tears his gaze back to you. His eyes soften.
“I had fun,” you say, softly. “This weekend.”
“Yeah,” he echoes. “Me too, angel.”
You swallow. Your hand folds on the handle, but you don’t open the door. It’s like you can’t quite bring yourself to leave. To get out of his car.
“Go on,” Joel says. He smiles. Nods again to your dad’s car. “Sure he missed ya.”
“I’ll call,” he says, when you still don’t move. “Promise. Just — gimme a few hours t’get settled.”
“Yeah,” you mumble. “Okay.”
He watches you. He takes half a breath, like he wants to say something else, but he just — doesn’t.
“I’m sorry again,” you say, quietly. “About the job.”
He shakes his head.
“Stop,” he says.
“I’m just—”
“Stop.” His eyes dart to the windshield, like he’s checking for the all-clear — and then he leans over the console. Kisses you, with his broad hand on your cheek. You mumble into his mouth and sink into his touch.
He pulls back. Blinks. The taste of him settles on your tongue.
“Fuck the job,” he says.
You chew at your lip. Your pulse pounds at your throat.
“Yeah,” you say, after a beat. “Fuck the job.”
Your hand wraps around the handle and this time you do get out. You hop to the ground and squint at the sun, slinging your bag across your shoulder, shoving your phone to your back pocket. You weave between Joel’s truck and your dad’s car and make your way up the drive. Up your front porch steps. You turn around on your threshold and Joel’s already pulling out, reversing down your driveway, lifting two lazy fingers off the wheel in a subtle wave goodbye. And then he’s just — gone. He’s back across the street, pulling into his own drive, and you seal yourself inside before you can chase him.
—
Your dad isn’t in the living room. Which is weird, since that’s, like, the only room he lives in. Almost as weird as his car in the driveway at 11 am on a Monday.
You drop your duffel in the entryway. Peer into the living room and back down the hall.
“Dad?” you call.
Nothing. You frown. He usually greets you at the door like a Spaniel.
“Hello? Dad?” You duck into the kitchen. No dad, but there is a stack of plates in the sink. An empty Hamburger Helper package left out on the counter. So a sign of life, at least.
“Hellooooo,” you singsong. You grab a glass from a cabinet and fill it up at the sink. You push the kitchen door back open. Wander out into the dining room. “I’m ho—”
There he is. Sitting at the dining table. Elbows on the wood.
“Jesus,” you say, a little startled. “You scared me. Did you not hear me calling you? I just got home, like, two seconds ago.”
He doesn’t respond. Your brows furrow. You take in the whole scene — the slumped shoulders, the bags under his eyes. The four glass bottles of beer beside his hand, all empty, and the rest of the case on the floor by his feet. At least two more empties, from what you can see.
You can smell it on his breath. On his clothes. In the stale, heavy air.
He’s hammered.
“Dad,” you say, a little uncertain. “What—”
“Where’s Joel?”
“Um.” You set your glass down. Your breath crawls up your throat. “He went home.”
He nods. He picks up the bottle closest to him and swirls the dregs. When he looks up his eyes are dark.
“How was the trip?” he asks, quietly.
“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, it was — good. Are you—”
“How was the hotel?” he interrupts. “Room good?”
He already asked you that. Yesterday. When he insisted on speaking on the phone. But you chalk it up to a full case of beer.
“Um, yeah,” you say. “It was good.”
“Good view, right?” he slurs. “The one I booked? S’posed to be a garden view.”
You nod, slowly.
“Yeah,” you say, again. “Good view.”
He slams his bottle down. A crack snakes up the neck.
“Why the fuck,” he asks, and you flinch at his voice, “—are you lyin’ t’me?”
Your heart stutters in your chest. The blood runs from your skin.
“What?”
“Sit down,” he slurs. He points to an empty chair.
You swallow. Feel it stick.
“You’re drunk,” you say, cooly. Or at least — you hope it’s cool. You try to keep your voice even. “And I’m tired, actually, so—”
“Sit your ass down,” he snarls.
You sit down.
“Dad,” you say.
He shakes his head. Takes a deep, unsteady breath.
“You wanna go first?” he asks. “Or should I?”
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patchwork
12.4k / dbf!joel x f!reader
official dbf!joel playlist
warnings: 18+, minors dni. angst. smuttt. hurt and (heavy) comfort. i said this was gonna be a shorter chapter and i lied. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel - in spirit, but SUB!joel in the sheets (just this one time OKAY) (big mean boys need love too), oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, cockwarming ???, some fluff, mentions of reader getting her period, descriptions of injury, reader’s dad is a menace
a/n: (off-key trumpet fanfare) (medieval banner unfurling) new chapter. same old dbf!joel. this time featuring old favorites such as the miller contracting shirt and sarah being more intelligent than everyone else combined. and newcomers, such as sub!joel and men whining and whimpering.
to everyone who keeps up with this series, thank you so much. you mean the world to me. to people just now joining the party, welcome, I love you, you also mean the world to me.
this is part 10 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8 | part 9
masterlist here. kofi here, if you feel like leaving a tip!
“Joel,” you say. He must see how badly you need him. How your eyes are blown wide, pleading pathetically with him. How your throat tightens up when you try not to beg. But he doesn’t kiss you. “How many times ’til you understand?” he breathes. “I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’m — fuck.” His jaw flexes. He pushes out a breath. “I’m yours,” he says. “’Til you say I ain’t.”
You do think about lying, at first. Deny, deny, deny. But it didn’t work with Hayes, when he cornered you in his aunt’s kitchen — and if the look on your dad’s face is any indication, it sure as hell won’t work now.
He knows. You can see it, in sunken eyes and sallow cheeks. He already knows.
So you just ask —
“How?”
—in a hollowed-out voice.
Your dad shakes his head. He rolls his knuckles on the table.
“Your friend,” he says. “Hayes? That his name? Nice kid. Good boy.”
Your skin pricks. Of fucking course.
“He was here?” You swallow. “In the house?”
“Came late last night,” your dad says. There’s something brittle, about the way he sounds. You don’t like how quiet he is. How he looks at his hands, when he speaks, instead of at you. “Said he tried t’reach you,” he murmurs. “Your phone was disconnected, or somethin’. So he got worried.”
Fucking Hayes. Your phone works fine. His number’s just blocked.
“So—what?” Your face heats. “He just came straight here? To my house? To my fucking dad?”
“He was worried,” your dad clips. His jaw flickers. You can feel his bite at the back of your skull. “’N rightfully so.”
“And you believe him?” You bristle. “Just like that? Some guy you’ve met — what? Once?”
“No,” he says. “No, course I fuckin’ didn’t. Didn’t think you’d do that t’me. Didn’t think—” he hiccups. He picks up a bottle and his nails clink the neck. “—didn’t think Joel’d do it.”
You’re quiet.
“But then I did a little diggin’,” he continues, slightly slurred. “Found this.”
He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out his phone. He swipes to an email and shoves the screen in your face.
It’s his hotel booking confirmation from a few weeks back. Single room. Queen bed. Garden view. The room you were supposed to take. And right above that, another email from the same address. Sent Friday night. About ten minutes after you and Joel had checked in.
You stare at the subject line. Reservation successfully cancelled! And underneath that: Hope to see you sometime soon!
You suck in a breath. Fuck.
“’S funny,” he muses, in a way that makes you think it’s not very funny at all. “Never woulda seen this, ‘f that kid hadn’t come by. Never woulda thought t’look.”
He puts his phone face-down on the table. His fingers hover on the glass.
“Yeah,” he says, softly. All to himself. “So.”
He picks up a fresh beer from the pile at his feet. Pops the cap on the edge of the table. Foam hisses up the neck and spills over his fist.
You watch him sip in silence. Your chest feels tight. You hate this — the quiet, the far-from-calm. The air is stretched out, too taut and too thin. You can feel it start to unspool.
He sets the bottle down. It makes an angry sort of thud.
“You wanna explain?” he breathes. “Or should I go get Joel?”
You don’t like the way he says Joel’s name. You don’t like the venom that sticks on his tongue.
“He didn’t do anything,” you say, quietly. “Dad. He didn’t do anything. I st—I started it.”
He stares at you.
“How long?” he asks.
“What?”
“How long,” he hisses, “has this shit been goin’ on?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “Not — not that long.”
“You don’t know,” he repeats.
You swallow.
“The party,” you mumble. “The Fourth of July.”
He makes a small sound.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “So you do know.”
You’re silent.
His breath quickens. You can see his pulse pick up, where it thunders at his neck. His palm splays on the table. His fingers flex against wood.
“Okay,” he says, softly. “Okay.”
“Dad—”
He nods. Once. Just to himself.
“I’ll kill him,” he says.
His eyes drag to you. You catch a glimpse of something dark.
And then he’s standing up, out of his seat, moving a hell of a lot faster than he should be able to, in this state. His chair scrapes across the floor with a slurred screech.
You lunge across the table.
“Dad, stop.” You try to grab at his hand. His wrist. Anything to tug him back down. “Stop. It’s not his fault.”
He pauses. Then he leans over, hands braced on the edge of the table. His shoulders bunch.
“It’s not his fault?” he says, slowly. He sounds incredulous. “No? I let him into my house. Drive his fuckin’ kid to soccer practice. ’N he—”
He breathes deep. It rattles wet between his ribs.
“You’re right,” he scoffs. “It ain’t his fault.”
It’s not exactly reassuring. Not the way he says it.
“It’s mine,” he slurs. He shoves himself up, off of the table. Stands straight, and dusts his hands off on his knees. He runs a palm over his face, and his boot catches on an empty bottle. You watch it roll under the table.
“Shoulda seen it,” he says. His lip twitches. “Right in fronta me, right?”
He laughs. Or — barks. It sounds angry.
“Joel Miller,” he drawls. “Can’t keep a wife. Fuckin’ deadbeat brother’s in jail every weekend. His own kid's hardly home.”
He scoffs again. Shakes his head.
“Shoulda known, huh? Shoulda fuckin’ known.”
“Stop it,” you say, and there’s something else in your voice now. It sounds like a warning. “Stop. You don’t know. You have no fucking idea—“
“Oh, I got some fuckin’ idea,” he snarls. “Known him a helluva lot longer ’n you.”
“He’s good,” you say. You take a shaky breath. You don’t remember your voice starting to rise. “He’s good, dad, you—”
He brings his hand down, hard, on the table. The sound makes you flinch.
“He’s a fuckin’ liar, ’s what he is.” He drags a shuddering breath. “And you’re a goddamn kid. You’re my kid.”
“I’m not a kid.”
He ignores you. Some of the bottles must be broken, you think, because his boots crunch glass when he staggers past you.
“I’m not,” you echo, and you hate that you sound like a kid, now. Fucking begging him to listen, begging him to stay.
He stumbles out of the dining room. You turn in your chair.
“Where are you going?”
“Stay there,” he says. “Deal with you later.”
“Dad,” you say. “Don’t—”
“Stay the fuck there!” he shouts. His hand curls in his hair. “Jesus! Fuck!”
His eyes squeeze shut. He pushes out a shaking sigh.
“I’m not doin’ this right now,” he mumbles. You can see him holding back. His fingers tremble at his sides. “Just go upstairs. Please. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Go upstairs,” he repeats, when you still don’t move.
Your throat crowds. Something hard and bitter sticks there.
“He didn’t do anything,” you breathe.
He huffs. Shakes his head. There’s thunder, somewhere far outside. You’re pretty sure it’s raining. You can hear it thrash at the front door.
“He did fuckin’ plenty,” he growls.
—
You stay in your room for hours.
Not because your dad told you to. You’re not thirteen, and you’re not grounded. You stay there because it’s safe and silent and familiar, and because you don’t know where the hell else to go.
You wish you hadn’t given Joel’s shirt back. That stupid, soft cotton one, with his name scrawled in print across the back. You’d curl up in it now, if it was still dripping across your dresser. You’d dig yourself under the covers and try to capture his scent on the collar.
But you don’t have his shirt, and you don’t have him. So you lay at the foot of your bed, in your own clothes, and you scroll through your phone until the screen makes you sick.
You text Joel twice. Maybe three times. He doesn’t respond.
You do get up at some point. You’re not sure when. You take a shower, and two Tylenol for the pounding, throbbing ache in your head, and you settle back into bed with wet hair. You swipe your phone back open and stare at the screen.
No texts from Joel. No nothing.
You call him. It rings eight, nine times and goes to voicemail.
“Fuck,” you mutter.
Your dad isn’t here, either. He’d come back once, hours ago, and stomped around downstairs before leaving again. He hadn’t come up, and you hadn’t gone down. You’d watched him leave from your bedroom window and peel out into the rain.
That was hours ago. When it was still light out. You think maybe you should call him, but — you don’t. You just don’t.
You go to your window, instead. You cup a hand to the glass and try to catch a sign of life from Joel’s house.
Nothing. The rain is coming down too hard. It blurs the glass, and makes the night bleed darker, and all his fucking lights are off, anyway. Every single one. Even his porch is pitch black.
But his truck is still in the driveway. You can see it from your room — or the shape of it, at least. So you’re pretty sure he’s home. Sure enough to roll out of bed at ten, when it’s clear you won’t be falling asleep, and wander out of the house. Sure enough to run barefoot across the street, in the rain, in a pair of sleep shorts and a shirt two sizes too big.
You don’t take anything with you. You leave your phone in the house, upstairs, half-hidden underneath your pillow. You figure your dad will try to call you, eventually. Or he’ll come home, finally, and come upstairs, and scream at you some more. You don’t want to deal with either possibility.
So — fuck it. You leave your phone. And your socks, and your shoes, and the sweater that’s hanging on your bedroom door. You leave everything, and you sprint across the street to Joel’s.
Your hair is dripping, by the time you make it to his door. Your shirt is clinging to your chest. Your cheeks are wet, and you can’t tell if it’s that hot, gloomy, summer-soaked rain or if you’ve just been crying.
Basically — you look like a fucking mess. But he looks a hell of a lot worse, when he opens up his door.
You only have to knock twice. Call his name once. And then the door is creaking open, a little reluctantly, and he’s staring at you from the threshold.
All the lights are off behind him. You can’t see into his house. And you can barely — barely — see his face.
But you can see enough. Enough to make your breath catch.
“Oh my god.” You take half a step forward. He shrinks back, into the dark, like he doesn’t quite want you to touch him. Like he doesn’t want you to see him.
“Joel,” you breathe.
“S’okay,” he murmurs.
Your lip trembles.
“My dad,” you say, quietly, “did he—?”
He doesn’t answer. Your heart breaks.
“Can I come in?” you plead. “Please?”
He doesn’t answer. Again. But he holds the door open, a little wider, and he steps back to let you in. You move past him, into his pitch-black hallway, and he shuts the door behind you. The rain fades to a nervous patter.
“Sarah?” you ask, softly.
He shakes his head.
“Home in the mornin’,” he murmurs.
Thank god, you think.
The dark doesn’t really faze you. You know his house like the back of your hand. But you walk carefully all the same, cause you can feel him behind you like a spooked animal. You wander into his kitchen and he hangs back a few feet. He leans against the counter with his face turned toward the dark.
“Joel,” you say, softly.
He’s quiet.
“I need to turn a light on,” you say. You’re speaking slowly. Quietly. The way you’d speak to a child. “I need to — I need to see.”
He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t try to stop you, when you reach for the switch. You hit the lights, dimmest setting, and the kitchen flickers to life.
You turn around. Blink. Your eyes adjust to the change in light.
And then you see him — like, really see him — and you gasp. You can’t help it.
It’s worse than it looked in the dark. It’s…way worse.
His right eye is swollen shut. There’s a bruise underneath, puffy and purple, pulling up around his eye and dripping down onto his cheek. There’s a neat little slice across the bridge of his nose. Blood on his cheek and his chin — from his nose, maybe, or from something else you can’t see.
But that’s not what kills you. None of that is what kills you.
It’s his hands. His fucking hands. There are no bruises blooming across his knuckles. There’s no blood splashed on his palms.
His hands are clean. He didn’t fight back.
He catches you staring. He sees the look on your face.
“S’okay,” he repeats. “Ain’t ’s bad as it looks.”
He tries to smile. The wince he lets slip instead says it’s worse.
You’ve never seen him like this. Not in all the years you’ve known him. You’ve never seen him look broken.
You’re trying not to cry. From the look he gives you, you must not be successful.
“Don’t do that,” he says, gently. “Please don’t cry, angel.”
“Your fucking — your face, Joel—”
“S’fine,” he slurs. “S’nothin’.”
“It’s not fine.” You shake your head. Water drips down your back. You’d shiver, if you could think about anything other than him. Him and his gorgeous, stupid, shattered face. “It’s not — fine, Joel.”
He’s quiet. You take a breath. Then another. You start to think a little clearer. Maybe it’s adrenaline, or some kind of base, protective instinct. Not an instinct you thought you had, but — it’s sure as hell kicking into high gear right now.
“Sit down,” you tell him. Your own tone surprises you. You sound collected. Commanding. A whole lot calmer than you feel. “You’re not fine. Sit down.”
His brows furrow. But he listens, so either you are that commanding, when you want to be, or he’s just too beat up to fight you.
You point to the breakfast table. He wanders over obediently and slumps into a chair.
“Do you have a first aid kit?”
He stares up at you. Blinks, with his good eye.
“Joel,” you say. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Uh—” he thinks, nods, “—yeah. Bathroom. My bathroom. Under the sink. But I don’t need—”
“Yeah you do,” you say. “Don’t move.”
He doesn’t move. You leave him at the breakfast table, huddled in his seat, and return a few minutes later with his first aid kit in tow. You pop it open on the table. Everything’s intact — gauze, isopropyl alcohol, tape, tweezers. It looks like it’s never been used.
“Don’t need all that,” he grumbles.
“Shut up,” you say.
He shuts up.
You should turn some more lights on, really, so you can see exactly what it is you’re doing. But you keep it dark — or dim, at least — because he winces whenever you tilt him to the light. So either the light hurts his bad eye — or, more likely, you think — he just doesn’t want you to see him like this.
You stand between his legs. The small of your back brushes his breakfast table. You take his chin in your hand and angle it up.
He hisses through his teeth.
“Stop fidgeting,” you murmur.
You dab at his chin with soaked cotton from the kit. The alcohol takes the blood right off.
“Y’don’t need t’do this,” he mumbles.
“Yeah,” you say. You can feel him looking at you. You’re ridiculously close like this, caged between his legs. But you’re focused on his face — on the blood splashed on his cheek, and the ragged cut across the bridge of his nose. “I know.”
He winces when you dab at his nose. Makes a low, annoyed sound in the back of his throat.
“Ow,” he says, flatly.
“You’ll live.”
“Mmph.”
You move onto his cheek. You try your best to avoid the bruise there, splattered underneath his eye, but you catch an angry edge on a few passes. You know when you do, because you feel him tense. You hear the breath he sucks in under your fingers.
“Shit,” you mumble. “I’m sorry.”
He tries to shake his head. But that hurts, too.
You pause. The cotton hovers over his cheek. He squeezes his thighs together, just slightly, and they cage you in tighter. His hands come up to hold your waist.
“I’m sorry,” you say, again. Your voice is softer, now. Shattered. You’re sorry for something else. You’re sorry for this.
“I didn’t know,” you say. “I tried — I tried to stop him. I didn’t know he would—”
His grip tightens on your waist. You dab his cheek with the cotton and your fingers linger on his skin.
“Stop,” he murmurs.
But you can’t stop, really. It’s all just — bubbling up. Now that the blood is off his face your composure is slipping — no more cool, calm, collected. You feel as broken as he looks.
“It was — it was Hayes,” you say. It just tumbles out. “He — he tried to text me, last night, and when I didn’t respond I guess he fucking — he drove back to Austin. To my dad. And he—”
You wave a hand. He did this.
“—I don’t know, he snitched, and then my dad — he found the cancellation, for the hotel room, and — and he was so fucking drunk, and I—I told him you didn’t do anything, I told him not to come here, but—”
Joel is quiet. You shake your head.
“I should’ve done something. I don’t know. I could have — I could’ve stopped him, or something—”
“No,” he says, quietly.
“Yeah. Yes. I could’ve — I should’ve been here. With you. Not fucking — not upstairs, in my room, just —”
“No,” he bites. The way he says it shuts you up.
“I told you,” he says, quietly. “He doesn’t like mess.”
He looks at you, with that one good eye.
“’N we made a fuckin’ mess,” he murmurs.
You shake your head. Tears well at the back of your throat. His thumb strokes aimlessly at the band of your shorts.
“Why didn’t you do something?” Your voice breaks. “Why didn’t you hit him back?”
He sighs. You hear it rumble in his chest. He runs big, broad hands up the sides of your soaked shirt.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
You take a trembling breath and he pulls you down, into him, until you give up standing and crumple into his lap. Your legs dangle sidelong over his. The dye on your soaked shorts bleeds into his jeans.
He doesn’t care. He pushes your hair back from your face and kisses your jaw, your cheek, the side of your nose. Whatever he can reach. It’s not sexual. It’s just…gentle. So fucking gentle.
“What do we do?” you ask. You sound miserable. You feel even worse.
His breath dances on your jaw.
“I don’t know, angel,” he says, finally.
You make a small, desperate sound and bury your face in his shoulder. He holds you there. You can feel him breathe. In and out and in and out. Slow. Even. It used to piss you off, how unbothered he always seemed. Now your fingers sprawl over his heart and cling to his steady pulse-beat like a lifeline.
“He’s not home,” you say. The words are muffled in his shirt. “I don’t know where he went.”
He nods. You figure he already knew that. He can see your empty driveway from his window.
“I don’t want—” you swallow thickly. His scent crowds your nose. Coffee, linen. The copper twang of blood.
“I don’t want to go back,” you say.
He breathes in deeply. His lips graze your temple.
“He’ll wanna talk t’you,” he murmurs. “Can’t avoid him forever, baby girl.”
“I could try,” you mumble. You’re only half-joking.
Joel smiles. You feel it curve at your temple.
“I don’t want to talk to him,” you say. “Not yet. Not — not now.”
You pull your head back from his shoulder. You put a hand on his cheek and run a careful thumb along his jaw.
He tips his head back a little, responding to your touch. A soft sigh slips past his lips.
You run your thumb along his bottom lip. His mouth parts, slightly. His good eye blinks at you, soft and brown and almost pleading.
“Please,” you breathe. “Joel. I don’t want to go home.”
He nods again. Your thumb stills over his lip.
“Okay,” he murmurs. His hand drifts up your back. His fingers trace your spine, stroking over soaked fabric. “Yeah. Okay, baby.”
His free hand comes up to wrap around yours. He moves your thumb gently from his lip and kisses it, instead. Featherlight. The pad of your thumb, your knuckles, your fingertips. It’s kind of a startling contrast, you think. The rough wrap of his hand around yours. The reverent brush of his lips.
“C’mon,” he breathes.
He whispers it between kisses, buried in the valley of your knuckles, so desperately soft you’re not sure he’s even said it at all.
But then he’s letting your hand go, and moving you gently from his lap, and he’s standing up from his seat with a wince that makes your heart ache.
He holds his arm out for you and you fold into his side. You can’t tell if you’re supporting him, when he limps through the dark to his room, or if he’s supporting you. Keeping you upright, with his big hand bunched in your wet shirt.
Maybe it’s both. You’re not sure that it matters. Either way you don’t let go of him, and he doesn’t let you go — not until you’re in his room, for the second time ever — and you’re staring at his unmade bed.
His duffel bag is open on the floor. There are clothes sprawled out across the carpet. Some of them are folded. He was probably in the middle of unpacking, when your dad got here.
You don’t know why that — specifically that — makes you so, indescribably sad. You stare up at the ceiling fan over his bed and try your fucking hardest not to cry. Again. For the ten thousandth time tonight.
He watches you. He sees your eyes roam across his carpet, and the clothes there, and the wrinkled, crumpled sheets on his bed.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, a little sheepish. “Everythin’ — it’s a mess.”
He means the clothes, you think. He means the room.
But, yeah, you think. Everything is a fucking mess.
You shake your head. His ceiling fan hums somewhere above you, and the air it kicks up makes you shiver. You hadn’t really realized how cold you were, when you were patching him up in soaked clothes. You realize now.
So does he. He takes one look at you — the way your hands rub up your arms — and swears, softly.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t even — you’re freezin’.”
“I’m fine,” you say.
“You’re soakin’ wet,” he says. “Take those off. I’ll get you somethin’.”
You hate the way he limps to his closet. You wish he’d just sit the hell down, and let you take care of him the way you did in the kitchen. But he’s stubborn, when it comes to this. When it comes to you.
You strip down to your underwear while he roots around in his closet. They’re the only thing the rain hasn’t soaked through. The rest — your shirt, your cotton shorts — you leave in a damp heap by your feet.
Then you sit back, onto the foot of his bed. Your arms come up to fold across your chest. You’re not sure why. It’s dark in his room, and it’s nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times now.
It’s just — he still makes you nervous, when he limps back from the closet with a dry shirt in his hand. He still makes you shy. And he’s impossible to read, on a good day, but after all this…you have no idea what he wants.
So you keep your arms crossed, pressed tight across your chest. Watch him with quiet eyes when he stops, a few feet from you, and holds out the shirt like a peace offering.
You hesitate. Just a second. When you reach out to take it, his eyes flick to your chest and then drop to the floor. He swallows.
“Thanks,” you say, softly.
He nods.
You tug it on without really looking, but the fabric feels familiar. Silk-soft, from one too many washes. You catch a glimpse of orange letters when you slide it over your head.
It’s that fucking Miller Contracting shirt. The one he’d given to you weeks ago. The one you’d slept in, next to Hayes. The one you wish you’d never given back.
It smells like him again. You twist a hand in the hem.
“Never should’ve given this back,” you say.
He smiles. You can see it in the dark. Soft. Small.
“Second time’s the charm,” he mutters.
You huff.
“Yeah,” you say, quietly. “Something like that.”
He’s quiet. He watches you toy with the sleeve.
“Keep it,” he says. “S’yours.”
You’re sure your dad will love that. He already knows you’re fucking Joel. Might as well traipse around the house in his signed shirt.
That’s if he ever lets you back in the house again. If he ever even comes home.
Fuck. If you ever even come home.
“Hey,” Joel murmurs. He must read the look on your face. The way your smile fades. The way your throat pulls taut.
“We’ll figure somethin’ out,” he says, gently. “He’ll — he’ll come around.”
You scoff. Yeah, right. The empty bottles scattered in your dining room; Joel’s shattered face — none of that spells about to come around. None of that spells reasonable, or even halfway rational. And Joel knows it. You think he lies to comfort you, and it almost — sort of — works.
“Just give him time,” he says. He takes a weary seat beside you, on the foot of his bed. The duvet sinks beneath him.
You look at him, next to you. His face is shadowed in the dark.
“He hurt you,” you whisper.
He’s quiet. You can hear him wrestle with the silence.
“He loves you,” he says, softly.
“That’s not—” You shake your head. “You should have hit him back.”
There’s a pause. You think he sighs.
“No, darlin’,” he says, quietly.
“Why? Just cause he’s — cause he’s your fucking friend?”
He swallows. You hear it, tight and thick, buried deep in his throat. His fingers slide over his knees.
“No, baby,” he murmurs. “Not cause he’s my friend.”
He doesn’t elaborate, which is…typical. But this quiet feels deeper, heavier than his usual lapses into silence, so…you let it go. You mumble something into the dark and stare off the edge of his bed. You watch your own bare feet dangle over his carpet.
“I wouldn’t blame you, y’know,” you say. “If this is just — if it’s too much, now.”
He looks at you. His good eye sparkles.
“Funny,” he says. “Was gonna tell you the same thing.”
You frown.
“It’s not too much for me,” you say, a little defensive. “Why — why would it be too much for me?”
He looks vaguely amused.
“I dunno,” he drawls. “You’re the one who brought it up.”
“Well, yeah, but — I’m not the one who got my shit rocked.”
His brows flick up. His smile pulls. You’re teasing him again. Must mean you feel at least a little, tiny bit better.
“I’m just saying.” You’re serious, again. “I wouldn’t blame you for running now.”
“You want me t’run?”
“No,” you say. It’s faster, harsher than you mean. “No, fuck. Of course not. I just — I wouldn’t — blame you. If that’s what you — want.”
He’s quiet.
“’S not what I want,” he says, softly.
He’s been careful not to touch you, since you’ve been in his room. He’d given you his shirt and then given you space — and you appreciate his hesitation, under the circumstances — but you wish he would just put his fucking hands on you. Make your eyes roll back. Make you forget. Just for a night, at least. Just for tonight.
And he does put his hands on you, now. Finally. Just — not in that rough, domineering way that you’re used to. He lifts a hand to your face and brushes a piece of hair back, behind your ear. His fingers splay under the cut of your jaw. He tips your face up, towards him, and your chin rests in the palm of his hand.
“I told you already,” he says. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
You look at him. You don’t have much of a choice. He’s forcing your gaze, with a grip like silk steel. His thumb strokes soft over your jaw.
“Yeah,” you say. “But that was before.”
“Doesn’t matter when it was,” he murmurs. “It was the truth.”
You feel small, with your chin in his hand. With your face tipped to his, and his big, warm fingers sprawled out over your skin. But you like it. You like that you fit in the palm of his hand.
You want to kiss him. You always want to kiss him, if you’re being honest, but — right now it’s less of a want, and more of a need. It tugs deep in your chest, somewhere behind your ribs, and you whimper uselessly around his fingers.
“Joel,” you say.
He must see how badly you need him. How your eyes are blown wide, pleading pathetically with him. How your throat tightens up when you try not to beg. But he doesn’t kiss you.
“How many times ’til you understand?” he breathes. “I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’m — fuck.”
His jaw flexes. He pushes out a breath.
“I’m yours,” he says. “’Til you say I ain’t.”
He’s quiet. His thumb stills on the ridge of your jaw.
“How many fuckin’ times ’til you get that straight?”
He’s so close. You don’t remember him getting this close. You don’t remember his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, and you can’t tell if it’s his skin that’s white hot or if it’s yours.
He leans in — closes that last, searing inch — and his lips brush yours. It’s not quite a kiss. But almost. Almost.
“I don’t know,” you mumble. “Tell me again.”
You tip into him. Rob him of his lead. You kiss him and his mouth parts obediently, like he was just waiting for you to do this. Just — sitting, stubbornly, until you took what you wanted. And now that you’re here — now that you’re taking — he gives it up. Willingly. More than willingly, you think.
You bite at his bottom lip and he groans. Sweet, smooth. Still distinctly Southern, in its silk-soft timbre. His hand skates up your back, over your shirt and under your still-damp hair — and he cups the back of your neck. Gently. Like he’s just — bracing himself, so that he doesn’t lose your kiss. Making absolutely, desperately sure you stay close.
You slip your tongue to his mouth. He makes a sound that sets your skin on fire.
You reach up to touch his face. You’re not really thinking. Your fingers brush his cheek — and the nasty, sprawling bruise there — and he winces.
You pull back. All of you — your mouth and your fingers.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “I’m—”
His hand is still on the back of your neck. And this time it’s not so gentle, the way he pulls you back against his mouth. But it shuts you up, at least.
“Don’t—”
He breaks his kiss for half a second. Just to scold you with that Southern snarl—
“—fuckin’—”
He licks into your mouth. Makes you whine.
“—apologize.”
“Sorry,” you squeak.
He tugs your head back. Holds you there, an inch from his lips.
You watch him toll his tongue across his teeth. Then you watch him shake his head.
“Jesus,” he says.
You almost laugh. But he swallows it up in a kiss, so you settle for a smile on his lips.
You’re gentler with him, this time. More aware of your hands: of where they are and how you touch him. You put your arm over his shirt, just under his heart, and take stock of the way his breath hitches.
You figure it’s probably not just his face that’s mottled black and blue. So you’re extra careful, when you drag your fingers up his arms, and over his sleeves, and across the soft flannel of his collar.
And you’re extra, extra gentle when you break his kiss, panting softly, and put two hands on the flat of his chest.
“Lie down,” you tell him.
He doesn’t move. So stubborn.
You push at his chest. Gentle. Gentle.
“Joel,” you say. “Lie down.”
“Mm,” he says. “Don’t take orders.”
There he is. That’s the Joel you’re used to. It’s kind of a relief, as stubborn as he is. Nice to know he’s not broken. Just…bruised.
You stare at him. He matches your gaze, one good eye for both of yours.
This is the part where you give in, usually. But you made him listen in the kitchen, and you’re gonna make him listen now.
“Yes you do,” you say. “Tonight you do.”
He opens his mouth. You shut him up before he argues.
“Joel,” you say. “Just — let me take care of you.”
His breath snags. He shakes his head, but his eyes look pleading. Like he doesn’t quite know how to say yes. It makes your heart hurt, a little. You wonder if anyone’s ever looked after him. If anyone’s ever offered.
“Already took care ‘a me,” he protests. “Y’don’t—”
“If you tell me I don’t need to, I swear to god, I’m gonna kill you.”
He blinks.
“I’m serious,” you say.
A smile plays at the edge of his mouth. He nods.
“Yeah,” he says. “Y’look serious.”
“So lie down.”
He looks at you. Half a second longer. And then you push at his chest, again — still light, still gentle — and this time he goes. He lies back and his weight dips the mattress.
“Scoot back,” you say. “Head on the pillows.”
He glares up at you. He looks a little peeved, but — he listens. He moves up and lays his head down on the pillows. You don’t miss the way he relaxes, almost instantaneously — all bunched up, beaten, six-foot-something of him. The way his muscles untense, when he splays on the sheets. The way his fingers unspool at his sides.
“Comfy?”
He grumbles.
“You can say yes,” you say. “I won’t tell anyone.”
He grumbles again. Slightly softer. You can feel him eyeing you, where you still sit at the end of his bed.
“Come up here,” he huffs. He sounds impatient.
You tilt your head. Twist your finger in the hem of your shirt.
His eyes flicker shut. His fingers tangle in the sheets. He lets a low groan slip, and it goes straight to your core.
“Please,” he grits, and you stifle a grin. Joel Miller, pleading with you. You should get it on camera, for posterity. But you’re not that mean. You’re just mean enough to make him repeat himself.
“Please…what?”
The look he gives you is downright wicked. You’ll pay for this, when he’s all healed up. When he can lunge up, off of those pillows, and flip you on your back without dragging in a wince.
But he can’t, right now. So…
“Please,” he repeats. Low, deliberate. Dripping in that deadpan drawl. “Get your ass up here.”
You indulge him.
“Okay,” you say, softly. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He mutters something. It sounds like a curse. You shuffle toward him on your knees, crinkling his sheet and straddling his legs. You stop when you’re hovering over his lap.
The hem of your shirt tickles his. When you sink down slightly, and drop a fraction of your weight to his lap, your underwear graze the dark seam of his jeans.
He hisses. His hands come up to hug your sides. He ruts his hips up, winces, and rolls his head back to the pillow. His arousal nudges at your thigh.
“Please,” he mumbles. He doesn’t sound annoyed, anymore. You’re not even sure he knows he’s begging.
He swallows. Rocks his hips up, again, and winces. Again.
You put a hand on his face. On the good side. He drops his hips and looks at you with one wide eye.
“Slow,” you breathe. “We’ll go slow.”
“Don’t wanna go slow,” he growls. Always so. fucking. stubborn. His grip tightens on your waist. “Wanna fuck you."
“You’re not doing anything,” you say. “You’re out of commission.”
“‘M not—fuck.“
You palm his cock through his jeans. His hips fumble mid-thrust and then fall. His breath shudders.
“Fuck, darlin’,” he mumbles. “What—”
“Relax.” You flatten your palm and drag it over denim. Over the rapidly-hardening line of his cock. His fingers dig at your shirt, crumpling the cotton, kneading at the soft spot between your ribs.
“Relax,” you repeat. And then, again, for the thousandth time tonight, “—Joel. Let me take care of you.”
He’s quiet. His eyes are half open, heavier with every short slide of your hand up his thigh.
“Please,” you murmur.
Your hand stills over his lap. You watch him with wide eyes. He swallows, thick, and then —
“Okay.” His head thumps back against the pillows. His cock strains uselessly, chasing your hand. “Fuck, baby. Okay.”
You start with his belt. Your fingers fumble on his buckle, and you blame the dark. And maybe your nerves, a little bit. He’s never let you take control like this. And you want — you want to do a good job. You want him to feel good.
You’re kind of surprised, actually, just how badly you want him to feel good. It’s not like you’re selfish, usually, when it comes to guys, but — this is different. This is a different kind of want, and a different kind of ache that bites low in your belly.
You get his buckle undone and slide his belt through his jeans. You toss it somewhere, and you think it hits the floor. You don’t bother looking. You’re busy again, already, tugging at his zipper, undoing the stiff button on his jeans.
“Lift your hips for me,” you say, softly. And then — because you remember how he winced, when he bucked his hips up into you, “—slowly.”
He does what you say. With a trademark grumble, but — still. He tilts his hips; slowly, gently, just high enough off the bed for you to pull his jeans down.
You shuck those off the bed, too. You can find them in the morning, in the half-folded sea of all his other clothes.
He’s breathing hard, by the time you settle back over his lap. There’s a damp spot at the front of his boxers, where pre-cum leaks from the tip of his cock. He’s this fucking desperate, and you haven’t even touched him yet. Not properly, at least.
And obviously he thinks you’re about to put him out of his misery, because his thigh twitches under yours, and you can feel his chest pull tight. His fingers curl hard on the mattress. You can hear the silk snap of sheets where they bunch in his knuckles.
Your hand drifts over the head of his cock. You can see the outline clearly now, without his jeans on. Hard and thick and dripping under black boxers. You stroke him through the fabric and he growls. Like — low, dark, buried at the base of his throat. It might scare you a little, if he had any fight left in him.
But he doesn’t. So you just…let go.
He groans. It sounds dangerously close to a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants. “Please. Baby.”
You ignore him. You move your hands up, to the hem of his flannel, and you watch his gaze flicker. A little confused. A lot annoyed. You start on the lowest button and he hisses through his teeth.
“What are you doin’?” he whines. Definitely a whine, this time.
You snap the second button. A sliver of golden skin peeks out.
“Going slow,” you say.
Third button. You run your fingertips over the skin you’ve uncovered. Featherlight. But he’s so fucking sensitive it’s enough to make him shiver.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
Fourth button. Fifth. You’re almost to the top, now. You work the last one undone and his flannel falls open, exposing his chest to the dark. You can’t see much, but you chart the change in his breath when your touch lands in certain places. The tender space between his ribs. The swell under his heart and the ridge of his collar. You imagine they’d look a lot like his face, if you leaned over and turned on the light. Black and blue and angry.
“Joel,” you breathe.
“S’okay,” he mumbles. In that dopey, blissed-out, touch me drawl. He shakes his head. “Doesn’t hurt.”
You don’t believe him, because it’s a lie. It hurts, and you know it fucking hurts. You see the way his eyes close, when your fingers graze his ribs.
“Yes it does,” you say, softly. “It hurts.”
He huffs.
“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles. “You f—fuck.”
You lay your palm on his stomach. On a safe spot. Your hand is so warm, and so small, sprawled out across him, and when it inches just slightly, slightly lower he takes a shuddering breath.
You take your hand away. Brace it beside him, on the mattress. Then you lean over his chest, over the skin you’ve revealed, and you kiss the shivering print your palm left on his skin. Just underneath his navel.
He whines again. His big hands come up to tangle in your hair.
“I what?” you murmur. Your lips skim his skin.
“You feel good,” he says. “Make me f-feel fuckin’ good, baby, fuck—”
You’re feeling bold. Kind of. You press your lips to that sore spot, just between his ribs. You figure his hands are already in your hair, if he wants to yank you off.
But he doesn’t. He hisses, sure — you hear the sharp breath he drags in, and the swear that slips free — but he doesn’t buck you off. He lets you put his lips on him. Lets you try to kiss it better.
Until he just can’t take it, anymore.
You pepper kisses on his chest, and his stomach, and on the jutting ridge of his hip. You pull at the hem of his boxers, just a little, whenever your mouth drifts down to his hips. Tug them down, fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch, and kiss the new skin you uncover.
And that drives him fucking crazy. That’s when he starts begging.
Mumbled, at first. You can’t even tell what he’s saying. That’s how fucked out he sounds. But you get the gist of what he’s asking for. His fingers in your hair, buried at your roots. His cock straining and neglected underneath you.
“Words,” you say. Your breath skitters along his hipbone. Your fingers toy with the hem of his shorts. “Use your words, baby.”
“Fuck,” he pants. His head is tossed back, tipped up against the pillows. The fan over his bed rustles the sheets. It doesn’t do a damn thing for the fire on his skin.
“Your m—ah. Your mouth, angel, pl—fuck. Please.”
His words — if you can call them that — are going straight to your core. If you let him feel you right now, you’re pretty sure you’d be soaked through. But his hands are busy, clinging to your hair while you draw lazy circles on his skin with your tongue. And it’s not about you, anyway. You don’t care that you’re aching for him, or that your whole body trembles when he begs you, please.
This is for him. For Joel. You can worry about you later.
You drag your lips off his skin. Long enough to rest your chin on his stomach and gaze up at him.
“My mouth,” you repeat. You dip the pad of your finger into his boxers. His thigh flinches. “My mouth where?”
“Oh, fuck,” he moans, and you can’t really tell if he’s pissed, or just desperate. His voice is hoarse. “On my f—on my cock, baby, please. Such a pretty f—fuckin’ mouth, angel. Wanna f-fill you up. Need t’feel you, fuck—“
You hook your fingers in his boxers and tug. His cock springs free, red and swollen. Pre-cum beads at the tip and drizzles down his shaft.
You flatten yourself in the cradle of his legs. You wrap a tight little fist around his cock and lick a stripe up his length, base to tip, collecting his taste on your tongue.
The sound he makes is broken. His fingers flex, then slacken in your hair.
You pause at the tip of his cock. Your tongue swipes over his slit, once and then twice, and his fingers tighten again in your hair. He likes that.
And then you flatten your tongue, and drag it over the silk-smooth underside of his head — and he ruts into your mouth. So he really likes that.
It’s not like you’ve never done this before. You’ve just never had the time to do it properly. Like, really, truly, right. Never been able to focus on him fully, on his bathroom floor or in the front seat of his car.
But here, in the dark, sprawled out between his legs —you can take your time. You can take care of him.
You flutter your tongue along that hidden spot until he’s saying something incoherent. You think it might be your name. And then you hollow your cheeks, and slip him into your mouth, and take his cock inch by inch to the back of your throat.
Slow. Slow.
“Fuck,” he’s mumbling, “such a g—good girl, darlin’, fuck. P-pretty girl. Look so f-fuckin’ pretty f’me.”
His broken praise makes your stomach swarm. Spurs you on. You shift up a little, sprawled out between his legs, and try your best to take him deeper.
The tip of his cock nudges the back of your throat. You choke, but you don’t let him go. You don’t move, either. You just hold him there, thick and pulsing on your tongue, until he begs you to move.
“Pl—fuck. Move your head, baby. Please. Lemme—ngh. Lemme feel you.”
You drag your eyes up. Look at him, in the dark, when you start to bob your head.
His eyes roll back. His head tips, digging into his pillow. You drag your mouth along his length, setting a steady pace, and when he’s soaked with your spit you add your fist. You swirl your hand, slow, in time with your tongue.
He won’t last long. He was a mess before you put your mouth on him — and now that you’re touching him, choking on his cock while he splays on soft pillows —
“Fuck,” he punches out. “Not gonna—last, babygirl.”
His fingers curl in your hair. He can’t thrust his hips up, into your mouth — he learned that lesson, already — and you can tell it’s taking everything in him not to go for the alternative. Not to just — sink his fingers down, into your roots, and shove your head down, instead.
You drag your mouth back to his tip. Release him, with a tight little pop that makes him groan. Your breath drips over his cock and makes him twitch. His tip grazes your soaked bottom lip. His fingers tremble in your hair.
“Joel,” you say, softly. “Take what you want.”
His breath picks up. His fingers flex again, experimentally, asking for permission you’ve just given.
You let him push your head down — gentle, gentle — until his cock is just kissing your lips.
“It’s okay,” you breathe. “Use me. Make yourself feel good.”
You think maybe it’s your words that get to him, more than your mouth or your fist or your tongue could do. He fucking whimpers — like, honestly whimpers, with his head tipped and his eyes shut and a soft, shattered plea on parted lips.
And then he does exactly — exactly — what you ask him to do. He digs rough, thick fingers into your skull and guides your head onto his cock with a frantic, stilted shove.
You almost choke. But you’re warmed up; stretched out from the agonizingly slow pace you’d set for him, before — so you take it. You can take it. You let your jaw go slack. Let him fuck himself on your mouth.
It’s the opposite of slow. It’s fast, and sloppy, and desperate, and for once you don’t stop him. His stomach clenches. His balls pull up tight. He groans, long and low and broken, and you —
You pull off of him. Right before he can cum down your throat.
“What—” He’s a mess. His chest is heaving, slick with sweat. His cock twitches. Slick, swollen. Fucking — aching, if the twisted look on his face is any indication.
“What are you doin’,” he groans. “Baby, please, I n—”
“Relax,” you breathe.
He doesn’t relax. He’s the opposite of relaxed. Every part of him is tensed; coiled up like an angry spring.
His breath hitches, when you untangle yourself from his legs. When you climb back into his lap and straddle his cock.
You lift the hem of that worn-out, faded, Miller Contracting shirt. It’s huge on you. It drips down onto his chest, when you lean forward, and shove your soaked panties to the side, and roll your hips over his cock.
He gasps. Swallows. His hands come up to grasp weakly at your hips.
You sink down onto him. Inch by inch. You’re fucking — soaked, for him — but he’s still a stretch. He still splits you open.
“God—damn,” he hisses. “So f—fuckin’ tight, sweetheart, fuck—”
You’re gentle with him. Like — really, really gentle. You fold over him — almost chest to chest, but not quite touching — and brace your hands on either side of his shoulders. You’re careful. The way you roll your hips is careful. The way you put your lips on his neck, above the bruise on his collar and below the one on his cheek — is careful.
Everything is careful, and gentle, but when you swivel your hips, and his cock nudges your g-spot, it’s him who tells you —
“Slow—”
—in that husky, rasping drawl.
You listen to him. You lift your hips up, walls fluttering around him, and sink back down slow. He sighs. You bury your own gasp in his neck.
“Cum for me,” you tell him. “It’s okay. Wanna feel — fuck. Wanna feel you.”
He grunts. His cock throbs.
You know how close he is. It must be borderline painful, you think, so you wonder why he won’t let go. But then his hand is sliding off of your hip, and slipping under the hem of that worn t-shirt, and his thumb is rubbing circles on your clit.
“You f—fuck,” he breathes. “You first.”
You bite back his name. Your hips buck, involuntarily — too hard, too fast — and if he was half-coherent he might wince. But he just bears down harder, racing you to the finish line, and your muscles clench around his cock.
You cum hard, trembling around his cock, and your chest drops over his. You’re putting weight on him; on the bruises scattered across his skin, but — he doesn’t care. He holds you there. His hands come up, over your shirt, and splay out across your back. He presses you down, into him, and his hips jerk up. You feel his cock pulse, somewhere deep inside you, and he spills inside you with a groan.
You think he’ll move you, as soon as he comes to. As soon as he remembers that he’s hurt. You’re sprawled across his chest, curled up around his bruises while his cock still throbs inside you.
But he doesn’t move you. He doesn’t even try. He holds you there, draped across him like a blanket, stroking lazy, stuttered patterns up your back.
You bury your head in the crook of his neck. You move your hips, just to see — and he moans into your collar. His fingers bunch in your shirt.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Gonna—ngh. Kill me.”
You smile. It curves soft in the column of his throat.
“Not tonight,” you mumble.
You try to slip off of him, then. Try to lift your hips up, and roll onto your side.
He’s not having any of that. He clutches you harder. Presses you to his chest, and keeps his half-hard cock speared inside you.
“Stay,” he mumbles. And then — still begging, “—please.”
“Don’t wanna hurt you,” you whisper.
“Ain’t hurtin’ me.” He sounds sleepy. His arms are heavy, where they drip over your back.
“You feel good,” he slurs. His nose nudges at your collar. “Feel like home.”
Your heart skips. Swells. You nuzzle into his neck, and even though it’s not physically possible to get any closer to him — you’re tangled up in every part of him, already — you try. You try.
He sighs. His breathing slows. You think he’s half-asleep, already.
You lift your head. You press a gentle kiss to his lips, and he responds with a sleepy little moan. His mouth is warm. Soft. He tastes like coffee and he smells like you.
He licks into your mouth with a low, lazy groan. When you break the kiss his head flops back to the pillows. His hands slacken on your back.
“Take good care ‘a me,” he mumbles. His good eye flickers open, and flutters back shut. His sleepiness is contagious. You bite back a yawn and snuggle into his shoulder. He’s still talking — mumbling — when your eyes start to close.
“So f-fuckin’ good t’me,” he breathes. “Don’t deserve you.”
You don’t respond. There’s nothing to say, except that you love him. And he’s already fast asleep.
So you nestle into him. Close your eyes. You listen to his breathing, deep and even, and you fall asleep over his heartbeat.
—
The morning is decidedly less romantic.
You wake up before him. You’ve both moved, in your sleep, and when you open your eyes you’re somewhere on your side. His arm is draped loosely over you. And there’s a dull, cramping throb at the base of your stomach.
“Shit,” you hiss.
You extricate yourself from his arm. You slip out of his bed and tiptoe to the door, sidestepping the mess of clothes on the floor. The sun pokes through a crack in his drapes. It lights a patch of cream carpet and a sliver of his skin. Tanned, golden, tinged with the purpling edge of a bruise.
You swallow. Shake your head. You push open his door, as quietly as you can, and sneak into his bathroom. You click the lock behind you.
You drop down onto the toilet. Dig your head into your hands. You confirm that — yes, you’ve started your fucking period — which is a good thing, really, considering the alternative — but still. Of all the days.
“Fuuuck,” you mumble.
You ransack his drawers. They’re predictably empty. There’s a half-full bottle of shaving cream, and some men’s razors, and a bottle of moisturizer that looks like it’s never been used. A gift from Sarah, you assume.
You shove the drawer shut. Huff. You click the door open and tiptoe back down the hall, back into his room, and stand awkwardly on the threshold.
Your presence must wake him up. He rolls over, wincing slightly, and his eyes blink open. He stares up at you, a little confused as to why you’re in his doorway and not in his sheets.
“…Hey,” he says, sleepily. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You shift uncomfortably. Gesture vaguely toward the bathroom. “I just — do you have a tampon?”
“Oh.”
He blinks again. Props himself up on his elbow.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, ‘course. Uh — check Sarah’s bathroom. Should be, uh — under the sink, or somethin’.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Yeah,” he says. He watches you, half a second longer. Watches the faded letters on your shirt when you duck out into the hallway again.
Sarah’s bathroom is a success. You come back in, a few minutes later, and sit on the edge of his bed. You rub at your stomach with the heel of your palm.
He sits up in the sheets. All the way, this time. He scoots closer to you and rests his chin on the ridge of your shoulder. Strokes his hand up your arm.
“Feel okay?”
“Yeah,” you mumble. “Just fucking — cramps. It’s whatever.”
“Ain’t whatever,” he mutters. His lips skate along your shoulder. You lean back, into his touch. You tilt your neck to let his mouth wander.
“What d’you need, baby?”
“Nothing,” you say, quickly. Your face heats. He’s a fucking mess. Beaten and bruised and half black and blue. The last thing you need is him worrying about you.
He pauses. His mouth is hot along your neck.
“Nothing,” you say, a little less convincing. “I’m good.”
“Okay,” he says, quietly. He nibbles at the side of your throat. You gasp. Your head tips back, toward him. “I gotta bottle ‘a Advil in the bathroom. ’N some tea downstairs. Can start there.”
“I just said—”
“Yeah, I heard what you said,” he drawls. His stubble rakes your skin. “Ain’t listenin’, though.”
“Fuck off,” you grumble. But Advil sounds good. So does tea. So does his mouth on your neck, the way he’s got it right now, nipping gently at thin skin.
“Mm,” he hums. He’s uniquely unfazed by your tone. He sees the way you melt into his touch. The way you try not to smile, when his nose nuzzles your neck.
“Took care ‘a me,” he murmurs. “Lemme take care ‘a you.”
“That’s not the same,” you grumble.
He ignores you. His mouth leaves your neck and he pulls you gently back to bed. He leans over you, half-lit by the quiet sun, and kisses your forehead.
“Stay there,” he says. “I’ll get it. What kinda tea you like?”
“I don’t know. Uh — like, Peppermint, I guess.”
He makes a face.
“Okay,” you say. “Chamomile.”
“Don’t have Chamomile.”
You blink.
“What do you have?”
“Dunno,” he says. “Little red tin. Got the Queen on it.”
You stare at him. He’s an enigma. Whip smart, sometimes, and other times — like, say, now — he’s just. Dense. He’s so fucking dense.
“Okay,” you say. “Great. The one with the Queen.”
He nods happily. He kisses you again and rolls off the bed. He pulls on a shirt, hissing slightly at the stretch of sore muscles — and you stifle a smile. He’s trying, you think. He’s trying.
You can hear him clattering around in the kitchen, a few minutes later. You lift your head off the pillows.
“Do you know how to make tea?” you call. You’re only half-teasing. You’ve seen him try to cook, on a few unfortunate occasions. It’s a disaster every time.
He doesn’t answer. More clattering.
“It’s just water,” you shout. “It’s just hot water. You take the little bag—”
The clanging pauses.
“Shut up,” he shouts back. “You’re s’posed to be asleep.”
You grin. Settle back against the sheets. You toy with the hem of his shirt and wait for him to come back.
And he does, a few minutes later. With two Advil in the palm of his hand, and a steaming mug of tea that looks — in a word — acceptable.
He puts it down on the nightstand, next to you. He looks proud.
“See?” he drawls. “‘M a professional.”
You roll your eyes. You take a sip, just to appease him — and he definitely did not leave the bag in long enough, but you don’t tell him that. You just smile, into the rim of the mug. Swallow back the pills he’s brought.
“Don’t you have work?”
“Called off.” He gestures to his eye. “Don’t feel like answerin’ questions.”
“Oh.” You look down. A pang of guilt darts up your chest. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Besides,” he drawls. “Someone’s gotta watch you. Make sure y’don’t keel over.”
“Oh, fuck off. I’m fine.”
“Mm.” He leans in. Kisses you. “Pain in the ass, though.”
But he’s smiling, and so are you, and everything is so normal, for a minute. So domestic. You pretend he isn’t hurting, and neither are you.
“Joel,” you tell him, when he gets up to leave, again.
He pauses in the doorframe. Runs a hand through ruffled hair.
“Never mind,” you say.
—
Sarah comes home sometime after noon. You’re in Joel’s living room, on his couch, bundled up in a fleece blanket while the TV blares. You’ve got a pillow clutched up to your stomach, to help with the cramps that you’ve told Joel are nonexistent.
But he doesn’t believe you, because you’re a terrible liar, so — here you are. Relegated to the couch, while he works on his laptop. There’s some innocuous, sleepy show on TV. TLC. My Strange Addiction, or something like that. The guy on screen can’t stop eating tartar sauce.
Joel looks up from his laptop. He points to the TV. “That,” he says, matter-of-fact, “is fuckin’ disgustin’.”
“Mm. I thought you were working.”
"I am," he says.
He’s not.
He slams his laptop shut. Makes a face at the TV. You swallow back your smile and snuggle into his shoulder.
“Your eye looks better,” you tell him. And it does. Sort of. In the sense that it’s no longer completely swollen shut.
“Yeah, well. Had a good nurse.”
He looks down at you. Smiles.
“Kinda strict, though,” he says.
“Watch it.”
“‘N stubborn as hell.”
You glare at him. He grins. He tucks a strand of hair back from your cheek. Lowers his lips to the shell of your ear.
“Real good with her mouth, though,” he drawls.
Your face heats. You drag the pillow from your stomach and swat gently — gently — at his shoulder.
He laughs.
He disappears into the kitchen later, to make you both lunch, and you trail behind him. Perch yourself on his counter, while he rifles through the fridge. He hasn’t pulled the blinds, so you can see your driveway through his window. Your dad’s car is still gone. You wonder if he’s tried your phone.
You know Joel sees the empty space in your drive. You catch him staring. But he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you.
You’re glad. You don’t want to talk, yet. Not about that. He makes you a sandwich and you eat with your back to the window.
You’re still sitting there when Sarah comes home.
In your defense, you didn’t know she’d be home, like — right now. It’s why you’re still in Joel’s shirt and a pair of his boxers, when she wanders out into the kitchen.
She sees Joel first. To her credit, she seems remarkably unfazed. Her backpack slides off her shoulder and hits the ground with a thud.
“Damn,” she says. “What happened to you?”
“Uh.” He touches his fingers to his face. “Accident. At work. I’ll live.”
“I figured.” Her face softens. She shakes her head. “Be more careful,” she says.
He nods.
She turns. Clocks you, at the table. She does a double take — the shirt, the rumpled hair, the bare feet — and her brow furrows.
“…Hey,” she says.
You stare at each other. Sarah blinks. Joel clears his throat behind her.
“She’s just, uh — here helpin’ out,” he says. “Work stuff.”
He points vaguely towards you. You nod.
Sarah looks between the two of you. Her lip quirks, like she’s hiding a smile.
“Work stuff,” she says. “Cool. Cool.”
You stare at the table. Joel shifts uncomfortably. An awkward silence strains.
“How are you, kiddo?” Joel asks, after a beat. “How was, uh—Abigail’s?”
“Oof.” She sucks her teeth. “So close. Alison. But — yeah. Sure. Good. She says hi.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah. Good.”
Sarah blinks. Again.
“Oo-kay,” she says. “Weird vibe in here. I’m gonna go shower.” She points to you. “Are you staying?”
“Oh.” You glance at Joel. “Uh—”
“Yeah,” he says. “For a bit.”
Sarah shrugs. “Cool,” she says. “We’ll hang out.”
—
You do hang out. And — it’s fun. It’s easy. You love Joel, but it’s nice to just…have a friend, for a while. You hang out in her room for the whole afternoon, lounging on her bed while he wraps up work. You listen to her shitty 2000s pop-punk playlist. You sprawl across her pink duvet, and she tells you about boys.
One boy in particular, actually. Some dude named Luke. Turns out Sarah wasn’t at Abigail’s — or Alison’s, or whoever the fuck’s— last night.
“I was with him,” she says. She giggles a little. Her eyes are wide, and she looks punch-drunk. “Do not tell my dad.”
Trust me, you want to say. He’s hardly one to talk.
“‘Course,” you say, instead. You put a finger to your lips. “Not a word.”
She nods. Hits skip song on her speaker.
“What about you?” she asks.
“What about me?”
“Well, I don’t know. I just told you a secret. The polite thing to do is tell me one.”
“Oh,” you say. “Um.”
You stare at her. She stares back. And then Joel is rapping at her door, and you thank god for his blundering timing.
“Hey,” he says, through the door. “Uh. I ordered pizza.”
“You’re not off the hook,” Sarah says, when you roll off her bed. “I want something juicy.”
Your face heats. You almost trip, on your way out the room.
—
Sarah notes your empty driveway during dinner. The glaring, dusky space where your dad’s car should be.
She asks if your dad is out of town. You tell her yes.
“Huh,” she says. She shrugs at Joel. “You should spend the night here, then.”
You blush. You try not to look at him. You don’t tell Sarah you already spent the last.
“I mean — that’s cool, right?” she asks, when Joel doesn’t answer. “She can stay?”
He’s quiet. His glass clinks on the table.
“Yeah, course,” he murmurs. “Course she can stay.”
“Cool,” she says. “That’s settled, then.”
—
You help Joel clear the table while Sarah finishes up. It gives you at least a second of much-needed privacy.
“I’ll take the couch,” you say, quickly.
He looks at you. His jaw flickers. He doesn’t like that plan, you can tell, but —
“It’s too risky,” you say. “With Sarah. I’ll just — I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He swallows. Nods.
“Fine,” he mumbles. “But — least lemme make it nice for ya.”
“Yeah,” you say, softly. “Sure.”
—
It turns out nice in Joel Miller-speak just means gathering up every single spare pillow, and every single spare blanket — enough to comfortably sleep a small village — and layering them on top of the couch. By the time you’re ready for bed, it’s like slipping into a cloud. Like — an oppressively hot, way-too-plush, suffocatingly sweaty cloud.
But he looks really proud of himself, when he presents his handiwork. He wants you to be comfortable, if he can’t fall asleep with you. So you sink down, into his makeshift nest, and tell him it’s nice when he tells you goodnight.
The second he’s gone you sit up straight. You rip the sheets off your body and sit there panting in the dark.
Sarah peeks out of her room. She wanders over to the couch and laughs at you.
“Nice,” she says. “You look cozy.”
“Shut up.”
“You wanna sleep in my room?” She shrugs. “I can move over.”
“No, it’s — fine,” you say.
She hesitates. Then she sinks down onto the couch, next to you, and rolls her tongue across her teeth.
“You can just go in there, you know,” she says.
Your head whips to her. Your pulse picks up. Pounds.
“What?”
She shrugs. “C’mon,” she says. “You’d probably both sleep better.”
You stare at her. You’re pretty sure your mouth is open.
“You—” Your voice drops. “You know?”
“Oh, seriously?” She sighs. “Dude, come on. I’ve known for weeks.”
“What—how?”
She blinks.
“Well, it’s not like you’re subtle. No offense. You left your bathing suit in my bathroom, that night I found you guys swimming. Plus, you were, like — extra weird. So, you know.” She gestures. “Connect the dots.”
“That was —” You shake your head. “That was, like, three weeks ago. You’ve known for three weeks? And you just—nothing?”
“Well, what do you want me to say?” She shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. It was a little weird, at first. I mean, you’re way younger than him. He’s so old. He’s, like, ancient. He’s—”
“Okay,” you say. “Point made.”
“Look, I love my dad,” she says. “But he’s a pain in the ass. He’s always cranky. He says, like, two things a day. He’s impossible to shop for.”
“Is there a but somewhere?”
“But,” she says, with a pointed look at you, “—he’s—different, now. The last couple weeks.”
“Different how?”
She shrugs.
“He’s happy,” she says. “You make him happy.”
You’re quiet. She looks at you a long time.
“Does he make you happy?” she asks, softly.
It’s the first time you’ve ever talked about Joel with someone other than — well, Joel. Or Hayes, or your dad, you guess, but you’re not sure that counts. That was — less conversation, more screaming match.
But Sarah’s looking at you earnestly, with a brown-eyed stare that reminds you of her dad. So you answer her honestly.
“Yeah,” you say. “Yes.”
She nods.
“Okay,” she whispers, and you see her smile in the dark. She nods down the hallway. Towards his room. “So get off my couch, then.”
You get off her couch. You’re halfway to his room when you turn back to look at her.
“No,” she says, before you can open your mouth. “No, I can feel it. You’re gonna say thank you, or some shit, and just —”
She waves you off.
“Don’t,” she says. “Do not thank me, for letting you sleep with my dad. That’s so gross. I’m covering my ears, if that’s what you’re gonna do.”
You bite back a laugh.
“You’re a piece of work,” you tell her.
“Yeah, well.” She flashes a grin. “Runs in the family.”
—
Your dad’s car is in the driveway, the next morning. Joel sees it first.
You figure there’s no harm in filling Sarah in over breakfast. You leave out the part where Joel gets beaten to a pulp — she doesn’t need every detail — but you give her the Reader’s Digest version.
Your dad knows. He’s pissed. You’re camped out here, like a fugitive, because the thought of confrontation is enough to make your head spin.
She listens. Nods, every now and then. She doesn’t ask any questions, which you think you appreciate, but you can tell she’s processing. She prods at her Eggo with a painted nail.
“He’ll come over here,” she says. “Now that he’s back. He’ll — I mean. Sounds like he’ll come looking for you.”
“Yeah,” you say. You know.
She rips off a piece of Eggo. Chews thoughtfully.
“And you don’t want to talk to him,” she says.
“I don’t know,” you mumble. “Not—not right now. Not until he’s…”
“Cooled off?” she offers. “Less psycho?”
“Sure,” you say. “That.”
Joel roams past the breakfast table, and you both look up to watch him. He’s been patrolling the window like a German Shepherd all morning, ever since he saw your dad pull in. He hasn’t let you stray more than four feet from his side.
“Hey,” Sarah says. She snaps her fingers. “Earth to dad.”
He blinks. Drags his stare from the window. Sarah points at you.
“Take her to Tommy’s,” she says.
He pauses, mid-pace.
“Tommy?” You look at Sarah. Then Joel. “Like your brother, Tommy?”
He’s quiet. Thinking. Sarah answers for him.
“Yeah,” she says. “Like Uncle Tommy. You’ve met him a couple times, I think. Funny stories. Man-bun.”
It rings a vague sort of bell.
“He has a cabin,” she says. “Like, three hours away. East Texas. Up in the Piney Woods.”
“Just take her there,” she says, and she’s talking to Joel, now. “Not, like — forever. Just til you figure your shit out. ‘Cause I don’t want to be here when—” She gestures toward the window. Toward your driveway. “Whenever that goes down.”
You can tell he’s thinking about it. He scrapes a hand over his scruff.
“I’d have t’ask Tommy,” he says.
Sarah rolls her eyes. “Tommy hasn’t been up there in months. He won’t care. Besides, you built it for him. Isn’t it, like — doesn’t that technically make it yours?”
“No,” he says, flatly.
He drops his hand from his jaw. Cocks his head toward the kitchen. He wants to talk to you. In private.
Sarah grumbles. You put your fork down and follow him in.
He turns to you, when you’re safely out of Sarah’s earshot. Drags in a deep breath.
“What d’you think?” he asks, softly.
“What do I think — of what? Of — hiding out, at your brother’s cabin? I’ve met him once. If that.”
“Not like he’d be there,” he says.
You push out a breath. Stare at him.
“Listen,” he says, gently. “’S your call, darlin’. But she’s right. Y’can’t—” his jaw ticks, “—we can’t stay here. Not ‘less you wanna deal with your dad today. Now.”
You don’t. Not today. Not — not right now.
You need time. And you need Joel.
“You wanna talk t’him, I’ll go with you,” he says. He touches your face. Tilts your chin with two fingers. “Right now. Across the street. We’ll do it together.”
It’s too raw. It’s too fresh. His face is still shattered.
He can see your hesitation. The way you shrink at the suggestion.
“You wanna run, I’ll run with you,” he says, quietly. “Doesn’t matter t’me, baby girl. I’m with you either way. But you gotta choose, angel.”
You bite down on your lip. Your pulse pulls between your ears. When you look at him your eyes are wide.
“He won’t mind?” you ask. “Tommy?”
“Nah,” he says. “He won’t mind.”
You nod. Half to yourself.
“I’d have to — get stuff,” you say. “From my house. My phone is still there. And I need clothes—”
He gives a patient sort of hum.
“We’ll get ‘em,” he murmurs. “Whatever y'need.”
You look at him. Your heart settles in your throat.
“Okay,” you say. “Just for a few days. Just ’til we figure it out. Together.”
“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes at your jaw. “Together.”
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lakeside
13.2k / dbf!joel x f!reader
official dbf!joel playlist
warnings: 18+, minors dni. y'all know the deal by now. smut. heavy on the fluff. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel (he's back) (prepare the red carpet), fingering, toys, some, uhh, light ass play and some equally light...tying up? spanking, unprotected p in v, reader can get/is on her period, joel's face is still busted, ive exhausted myself y'all can let me know if i missed something
a/n: hello party people. i love you long time. y'all make my day every day. have fun, be safe, live laugh love dilfs, etc etc. inbox is always open for all of y'all 🤍 enjoy the cabin. it will be a two part affair.
this is part 11 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10
masterlist here. kofi here, if you wanna leave a tip :)
“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What?” He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth. “Nothin’,” he says. And then he kisses you.
Joel waits in his truck while you get your stuff. He keeps the engine going and his foot on the gas.
You like knowing he’s there, when you slip into your house. You like knowing he’s close.
You make a beeline for the stairs the second you’re inside. You don’t announce you’re home, the way you usually do, and you think with any luck your dad won’t hear you come and go.
You make it to your room without a chase. You drag a duffel from your closet and throw in some clothes — tee shirts, jeans, whatever’s closest — and whatever’s within reach on your bathroom sink. A toothbrush and toothpaste. An open, almost-empty box of tampons. Whatever. You figure Joel can stop for anything you miss.
Your phone is where you left it two nights ago, half-buried underneath your pillow. You fish it out and stuff it in your duffel. Your charger, too. Then you do a final, hurried sweep — and, fuck it, — you shove that little black vibrator in, too. The one tucked in the back of your nightstand. The one you haven’t touched since that night with Hayes.
You zip the bag. Sling it up over your shoulder. Your pulse paints a weird, nervous patter by your throat.
And then — because of course your luck has to run out, sooner or later — your dad’s voice lurches behind you. Hard and brittle. Almost broken.
“You’re home,” he says.
You freeze. Your hackles are up, like a cat in the corner. His shadow stains the carpet.
You turn, slowly. Your duffel slouches.
“I’m leaving,” you say. Soft. Even. But — firm, you think. You’re leaving. Get out of my way.
“Where’ve you been?” he asks. He sounds tired.
You don’t answer. You know he already knows.
He sighs. His head hangs.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. His hand comes up, fast, and slams the doorframe. “Fuck!”
You wince.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he says. You can’t tell if it’s an order or a plea. Both, maybe. “Just—put the bag down. Come downstairs. We’ll talk.”
“I don’t wanna talk.”
“Just — fuck!” He swears, again. Slaps the door, again. You wonder if he hit Joel like this. Open-palm. So hard he makes splinters. Or if it was worse — closed fist, knuckles scraping.
Your cheeks burn.
“I’m not talking right now,” you say. “You’re too—”
You don’t finish. He’s too everything. Too much.
You walk closer. He doesn’t step aside, so you squeeze past.
He doesn’t stop you, at least. Doesn’t touch you. But he follows you, when you sidestep him and take the stairs two at a time. You can hear him on your heels.
“Stop,” he says. He’s slower than you are on the stairs. You’re halfway out the door by the time he hits the bottom.
You don’t stop. You can hear Joel’s engine, purring out in the middle of the road, waiting for you when you step into the sun. Just like he promised.
You take your porch steps two at a time, too. When your shoes hit the street you’re almost sprinting. Not — away from your dad, so much as towards Joel.
He cracks his door when you get close. Trots around the truck to the passenger side.
You shrug your bag off your shoulder and he takes it from you. Puts it in the backseat. He snaps the passenger door open and nods.
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” you mumble. Your face is flushed.
He nods again. His finger flexes on the door. He’s looking past you now, up the street, where your dad is stomping down your driveway with an angry sort of gleam.
“Get in,” Joel says.
You get in. He shuts the door behind you. His window is cracked — you’re not sure they’re even capable of closing — so you can hear every snarled syllable when your dad crosses the street.
He’s shouting. It takes you a minute to work out that he’s yelling at Joel and not you.
“Are you fuckin’ serious?” he’s saying. Shouting.
He’s barefoot on the pavement. He’s lucky it’s still overcast, you think. Or else the soles of his feet would peel right off. You kind of wish they would right now.
Joel is quiet. Which is nothing new, really, but — still. You wish he’d fight back. He’s bigger than your dad. Taller. His voice rolls deeper. It’d take one word to set him back in his place.
But he’s quiet. Silent. You notice, though, that he doesn’t move. He stays wedged in front of the passenger-side door. Between the truck and your dad. Between you and your dad.
“Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?” your dad yells. “You asshole. Y’can’t take her.”
“Dad,” you say.
He ignores you. Joel stays put.
“Goddamn it,” your dad swears. “You didn’t learn your fuckin’ lesson already? Huh? Wanna go again?”
“Dad,” you say.
He ignores you. Again. He takes a jolting step forward, towards Joel and towards you. He shoves Joel with two flat palms and a snarl.
Joel stumbles. His back thumps the door. Heat swirls in your chest.
“Don’t fucking touch him,” you snap. Your hand curls on the handle. “You need to — you need to calm down.”
“I need to calm down?”
He’s talking to you now, at least. He sounds incredulous. He glares between you and Joel.
“Get outta the car,” he says. He’s not yelling. You wish he would.
“No.”
“Yes. We’re gonna talk about this now. Get out of the fuckin’ car.”
He reaches around Joel for the door handle. You shrink back.
And Joel — who didn’t fight back two nights ago, who’s peppered black and blue with bruises, who hasn’t moved a muscle this morning-
Joel puts a flexing, furious hand on your dad’s shoulder.
“Step back,” he growls.
There he is. That’s the Joel from the bar. That’s the Joel that beat the shit out of two grown men and sent them running.
And you get it, you think. You get it now. Your dad can threaten him all day long. Beat him black and blue. But the second he raises his voice at you—the second it’s you he’s reaching for — Joel is on guard. He’s pulling rank. He straightens up, drags himself to his full height, and you see the not-so-subtle way his shoulders bunch. Even banged and bruised, he looks imposing. More so than usual, maybe. Like a wounded animal: angrier, untethered.
“You got some fuckin’ nerve,” your dad says. But he’s stepped back, you notice. “She’s my kid.”
“‘N she doesn’t wanna talk,” Joel says. “So I’m tellin’ you to step—” his jaw flickers, “—the fuck back.”
Your dad stares. You swallow.
“Fuck you,” he says, finally. But he’s stepping back now, all the way. Crossing his arms.
Joel doesn’t say anything. No last word. No smug smile. He just walks quickly around the truck, to the driver’s side, and clips the door shut when he climbs in. He wraps a hand around the gear shift.
You stare straight ahead. Your hands are shaking.
“You okay?” he murmurs. Still gentle.
“Yeah,” you breathe. You can see your dad in your peripheral, standing in the middle of the road. Arms barred. Face tangled. “Just drive.”
—
Tommy’s cabin is in the middle of fucking nowhere. Which is — nice, actually. It’s nice to get away. From Austin. From everyone. From everything.
The nearest town is a place called Two Springs. Two Springs, Texas. It sounds more like a stop on the Disneyland express and less like an actual location, but — Two Springs. You stop there, on your way up. For groceries, gas — the essentials, according to Joel.
It turns out town is a gross exaggeration. Two Springs has exactly four buildings to its name: a gas station, a bar, a Mexican restaurant, and a sprawling, Western-style structure with a sign that says GENERAL ORE. You figure it might’ve said General Store once, like a century ago, when someone painted it for the first and last time.
It’s well-stocked, at least. They have Tylenol, Advil, Aleve — for your cramps and for Joel’s ten thousand cuts and bruises. They have a reusable ice pack Joel insists he doesn’t need. They have tampons, to supplement the grand total of three you’d managed to scavenge from your desperate sweep of your bathroom.
And they have food. Lots of food.
“Better stock up,” Joel tells you. He’s slouched against the shopping cart with a lazy sort of lean. His sleeves are sloughed up to his elbows. The further from Austin you’ve gotten, the more he’s seemed to relax. He almost looks content, right now.
“Hundred bucks says Tommy ain’t got a damn thing in the house,” he says. “So. Get whatever y’like.”
“Oh, god.” You fake a groan. “Does that mean you’re cooking?”
He shoots you a glare. You grin.
You split up. You case one aisle and he takes another. When you meet back up in the middle of produce, you’ve got your hands full of ice cream and he’s cradling a case of beer.
You point to the beer. Shake your head.
“You’re useless,” you say.
He frowns.
“You’re one t’talk,” he says, with a nod toward Ben and Jerry.
“This counts as food.” You study the label. “See? Chunks of real cookie dough.”
He stares at you. Blinks. Then he sighs; that beleaguered, bemused huff that hides his smile.
“Just put it in,” he grumbles.
—
You do manage to get some actual food. Eventually. And you talk him into that reusable ice pack, for the sprawling, angry bruise under his eye. Eventually.
A spindly, skeleton of a man checks you out up front. His eyes droop. He’s got a cowboy hat on — true Texan — and there’s a layer of dust on the brim. He’s probably been sitting here since they built the store.
He takes an eternity to scan your items. You can feel Joel getting antsy beside you.
“Passin’ through?” the man croaks.
He’s got a voice like a broken rattle. It startles you both.
Joel grunts.
The man nods. He mutters something you can’t hear. Then he points to you with a gangly finger.
“She’s a nice little thing,” he drawls.
Your nose scrunches. Fucking — gross.
Joel tenses beside you. His fist folds on the counter.
“Don’t,” he says. His voice is dangerously quiet. “I ain’t in the fuckin’ mood.”
The man blinks. Swallows. He drops his gaze and doesn’t look at you again.
He finishes ringing you up in silence. When he hands Joel the bag his fingers tremble.
“Y’all have a nice day,” he says.
Joel grunts.
You follow him back out to the truck. He puts the groceries in the backseat, by your duffel, and you don’t say anything to him, not yet, but you’re gnawing on your cheek when he climbs back in the driver’s seat.
You’ve had a shitty start to the day. A shitty last few days, to be honest. You don’t want Joel to be pissed. It’s just — he’s kind of hot, when he gets riled up. When he snaps at your dad. When he rolls his fist on the counter and snarls at strangers.
No. He’s not kind of hot. He drives you fucking crazy.
But you keep that to yourself. For now. At least ’til you get where you’re going. You figure you can wait at least a little while longer.
—
Tommy’s cabin is nice.
Not that you were expecting anything less. Joel built it, after all.
But — still. It’s nice. It’s really nice. It looks like something straight out of a Hallmark postcard: Adirondack chairs on a pinewood porch, stone chimney surrounded by trees. No neighbors — at least none you can see. A quiet lake with a pebbled shore.
The whole place smells like sunlight and pine needles and freshwater. It’s a far cry from Austin. From home.
He parks the truck out front, on a packed-down slope of dirt. There are tire treads baked into the soil — Tommy’s, you assume.
You’re halfway out of the truck before he puts it in park. You snatch your duffel from the back and stand in the shade, staring at the tops of trees, waiting restlessly for Joel to get his ass out of the car.
He lumbers out, eventually. You shift your bag to your other shoulder while he gathers up the groceries.
He leads the way up the slope, towards the cabin. You follow on his heels.
“This place is kinda cool,” you admit. “I haven’t been camping since I was, like, ten.”
“This ain’t campin’,” he says.
Typical. You roll your eyes. Pull a face behind his back that he — mercifully — doesn’t see.
“Uh-uh,” he drawls. “Don’t roll your eyes ’t me, pretty girl.”
You pause halfway up the steps. Your duffel hangs off of your shoulder.
“I didn’t roll my eyes at you.”
He hums amusedly. He digs a key out of his pocket and twists it in the lock.
The door gives with a push. The smell of pine drips down the porch.
“What, so, you can read my mind now?”
He hums again. He puts the key back in his pocket and leads the way inside.
“Somethin’ like that,” he says.
You roll your eyes again. He turns around this time, just past the threshold, and fixes you with a hooked half-smile.
“You ain’t that hard t’read, darlin’.”
You grumble something in response. His smile widens and yours does too, reluctantly, because seeing him happy is fucking infectious. It almost makes you forget about the bruise under his eye, and the slice across his nose that still looks too fresh.
“C’mon,” he says. He flicks a switch by the door and the whole place flickers — once, twice — then settles into soft light. “I’ll give ya the tour.”
He snatches up your hand and you lean into his arm, smothering your smile in his sleeve.
“Alright,” you tell him. “Better be good.”
—
It is good. You’re impressed. It’s a small place, cozy, but he’s thought of everything. Dark wood floors and a light leather couch and comfortable, colorful throws. Sketches on the walls: deer and ducks and charcoal antlers. Half-finished woodworks on a desk by the window. You wonder if they’re Joel’s, or Tommy’s, or both.
You don’t ask. Yet.
The bedroom is equally intimate. White sheets on the bed. Wooden headboard. Flannel blanket that screams Joel Miller. It makes you smile, when you drop your duffel down on it and unpack your things. You like it. This whole place feels like Joel.
You put your random, assorted toiletries in the bathroom, and — in a spur of the moment decision — you shove that black vibrator in the back of the nightstand, where you’re keeping your phone charger. Force of habit, you guess. You leave the rest of your clothes in your duffel and shuffle out to find Joel.
And — speaking of Joel — he was right to stock up, in that shitty not-quite-town of Two Springs, because the kitchen is empty. Well — almost empty, if you count the cobwebby bottle of clear liquor stashed beside the sink. You pick it up while Joel puts the groceries away. Turn it label-side out.
“What the hell is this?” you ask.
You hoist it up, towards Joel. Dust sloughs off the glass.
He straightens. Turns.
“Not a damn clue,” he says. “But I wouldn’t touch it ‘f I were you. Knowin’ Tommy, ’s probably radioactive.”
Your nose scrunches. You work the top off and put your nose to the rim — which is a huge mistake, because it smells like raw gasoline. You cough loudly and reseal the cap.
“What the fuck,” you sputter.
Joel laughs. Told ya so.
You shove the bottle back by the sink. Wipe the dust off on your jeans. Joel finishes arranging his beers and stands back to admire his handiwork.
“So-o,” you say. You push yourself off the counter and wander out of the kitchen. You drag a curious finger toward the wall of charcoal sketches, and you can feel Joel’s gaze follow. You can hear his sigh, too. Like he’s preparing himself.
“Tommy’s?” you ask, turning halfway to face him. “Or yours?”
He shifts a little. Shoves his thumb through a belt loop.
“Tommy’s,” he gruffs.
That checks out. You’ve seen Joel’s drawing skills on display, in that tiny coffee shop in San Antonio. He’s god awful. And these are at least…halfway decent. You wouldn’t say impressive, but —
“They’re good.” You flash a grin. “I mean. Better than yours, for sure.”
His brow lifts. The corner of his lip twitches.
“I’d watch it, ‘f I were you.”
“Oh, yeah? Or what?”
He almost smiles. You almost catch him.
“Or y’can sleep outside,” he drawls. “With the bears.”
“Mm.” You turn away from the drawings. You’re not so interested, now you know they’re not his. You wander back to him and smooth your hands along his collar. “Very scary. I’m terrified.”
His pulse picks up at your touch. You can feel it, when your hands drift lower and skim across his heart.
“Should be,” he murmurs.
You’re close to him, now. Really close. You have to tilt your chin to meet his gaze. His voice drips to your lips and settles there, white-hot.
You want to kiss him. You really do. It’s just — that fucking bruise on his cheek is glaring at you, mangled and purple and mean.
You swallow. Draw back, just a little. He looks disappointed.
“That bruise looks bad,” you murmur.
He starts to shake his head. You cut him off.
“C’mon,” you say. “We bought that ice pack. Let’s try it, at least.”
“You bought it.”
“Not true. I just put it in the cart. You paid.”
He frowns.
“Don’t say no,” you say.
“Didn’t say anythin’,” he gruffs. “But no.”
“Mm. Okay. Keep it up, you can sleep outside with the bears.”
He frowns again. Deeper, this time. You get the sense he’s forcing back a smile.
“Don’t be a baby,” you say. “We can’t waste it. It was, like, seventeen bucks. Total rip off.”
He grumbles. But he doesn’t grumble quite as much as he did two nights ago, when you first begged to take care of him. So he’s either getting used to someone caring about him — caring for him — or you’ve just worn him down.
You don’t mind either way. Whatever gets the job done.
“Go on,” you tell him. “Couch.”
He’s still grumbling. But he goes obediently to the couch and sits, sinking down onto the cushions with a heavy sort of sigh.
You sit beside him. He’s easier to reach like this, when you’re both sitting. You can perch yourself on the arm of the couch and tip his chin up, towards you. You can hold the pack to his face without reaching. Press it gently to the mangled colors on his cheek and his chin and his jaw.
He hisses softly, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything he sort of melts into your touch, the way he’d been too scared to do two nights ago.
He could do this himself. Easily. He tries to tell you as much, a couple times — and you bat him away. You like helping. You like feeling useful. And you like any excuse to be this close to him; to touch him, even though you don’t need much of an excuse at all.
He stops asking to do it himself, after a while. You get the sense he likes the help as much as you like giving it. His face gets heavier in your hands, and you realize he’s stopped propping himself up. He’s just — dead weight, in your palms. He trusts you.
You swallow. Your throat feels thick. So does the air, all of a sudden, like someone’s tossed a giant blanket on the inches between you. You move the ice pack half an inch to the right. Expose the corner of his mouth you’d had covered.
And then you try not to kiss him. Again.
The edge of his lip you’ve exposed quirks up, like he’s asking you to do it. Teasing you. Wondering just how long you’ll hold out.
You clear your throat.
“So the drawings are…Tommy’s,” you say, lamely.
He blinks. Hard. He’s been staring at you.
“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Says he comes up here t’hunt, but — I’ve never seen him shoot a deer. Only ever seen him draw ‘em.”
You smile. You pull the ice pack back and examine his face. It looks a little better. Less…angry. There’s a pink shine on his right cheek, where the ice has numbed his skin.
“I get it,” you say. “Miller boys. You’re both big softies.”
He glares at you. You can feel his jaw tense where you cup his face.
“Sorry,” you say, quickly. “I mean — very scary. So scary.”
He grunts. Mumbles something unintelligible. You could swear his almost-smile gets wider.
“And the little wooden things?” You tilt your head toward the far wall of the cabin. Toward that desk by the window, littered with half-finished carvings and pinewood peels. “Are those Tommy’s, too?”
He doesn’t answer. Which is fine, because you’ve gotten pretty good at reading his silence.
“Okay,” you say. “So. Not Tommy’s.”
There’s a pause. He sniffs. Then his gaze drops; off of the couch, onto a knot in the hardwood, and the cheek you haven’t been icing turns pink.
He’s blushing.
You stifle a grin. He’s cute when he’s flustered. And he’s even cuter when you consider that this must be how he spends his free time. Joel Miller, strong, silent, a little bit mean, carving little creatures out of wood.
You push off of the couch before he can protest. He grumbles weakly and sinks further into the cushions.
You walk over to the desk. Sunlight pours through the window, baking the glass, and the wood is lighter where it spills. You slough some wood chips aside with the flat of your hand. Most of the carvings are in some state of progress, like he can’t quite decide what to work on and what to finish — but you find one that seems pretty much done. You pick it up, gently. Turn it over in your hands. You hold it up to the window and swallow back your smile.
It’s a duck. A little wooden duck, with a flat bill and pine feathers. There’s a tiny J.M. carved into the side.
It’s good. Better than Tommy’s drawings. But, then — you might be biased.
When you turn back to Joel you’re grinning. The duck is hoisted in your hand.
“Shut up,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You’re ‘bout to.”
“It’s good.” You walk back over to him. Sit beside him on the couch. His little duck sits in the palm of your hand.
“It’s cute,” you say.
He glares at you. Then the duck.
“It ain’t cute,” he says.
“Yeah it is. It’s cute. It’s adorable. You carve ducks.”
“Don’t carve ducks,” he says, gruffly. “’S just the one. The feathers are — hard t’get right. ’S good practice.”
“Right. For more ducks.”
He looks at you. Shakes his head. He snatches the duck up out of your hand before you can close your fist.
He stands up, off of the couch. Walks his duck back to its place on that sunlit desk.
“Come on,” you protest. “Finder’s keepers.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Fine. Then you can make me one.”
He sets the duck down. Adjusts it, so its bill is basking in the sun. You’ve only ever seen him this gentle when he’s touching you. Well — you and his wooden duck.
He straightens up. Turns back to face you.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” he says.
“Yeah. So you’ve said.”
“Y’don’t want one of these,” he says, with a gesture toward the desk. Toward the dozens of half-finished creatures. You can make out the vague shape of a deer, in one block of wood. The hint of an antler. “They ain’t even good.”
He’s self-conscious. Joel Miller is self-conscious about his ducks. Or — duck. Singular.
“Yes they are,” you say. You stand up, too. Join him over by the desk. You loop your arms around his waist and rest your head on his back. “I mean, you’re not gonna be carving the David anytime soon—”
He twists around to glare at you. Your arms drop from his waist.
You laugh. You laugh until he’s smiling, too. You laugh until he tugs you into his chest, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and tilts his bruised face down to yours.
“You made them,” you say, softly. “‘Course I love them.”
You mean that. You’d love anything he’s scrawled his initials into.
He’s quiet, for a second. His thumb stills on the ridge of your cheek.
“Fuck,” he mumbles.
“What?”
He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth.
“Nothin’,” he says.
And then he kisses you.
You’ve been waiting for this all day. There’s been a borderline-painful tug between your legs since you left that shitty almost-town of Two Springs. So you melt into him, when he bends to kiss you, and you’re almost — almost — too preoccupied to feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
You ignore it. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like summer sun and coffee, and his lips are still cool from the edge of that ice pack.
You fist your hands in his flannel. Bite at his bottom lip and swallow his groan. His hands go to your waist and he’s turning you — turning you both, so that your back nudges the desk — and you get the vague sense he’s lifting you up. He swipes stray wood chips aside, clearing space for you, and puts you down with a gentle sigh.
You mumble something into his mouth. You’re not sure what. Your legs are hooked around the backs of his, pulling him close, and when he bends to kiss your neck you tilt your head for him. His nose grazes the side of your throat.
And then your phone buzzes. Again.
He hears it, this time. He pulls back with a bemused smile. His eyes are heavy.
“Wanna get that?”
“Not particularly,” you mutter. But you dig your phone out of your pocket anyway, just to turn it off, and your dad’s contact lights up the screen.
You groan. Your heart sinks to your feet.
“Shit.”
Joel is quiet. He’s still desperately close. There’s a piece of his hair that’s out of place, thanks to your wandering hands. It’s curled halfway down his forehead.
“It’s my dad,” you say, blandly. You flip the screen to show him.
“Figures.”
You swipe the notification open. Your phone is ridiculously slow in opening, which probably has something to do with the fact it’s on 2% battery. It’s kind of impressive it’s even still functioning, considering you can’t remember the last time you plugged it in.
Your dad’s messages come up. Slowly. You read them with your feet dangling off the desk.
“What’s he say?” Joel asks, quietly.
You shrug.
“Wants to know where we are,” you say. “I turned my Find my Friends off, so.”
You don’t elaborate. You doubt Joel even knows what the hell that is.
“I should tell him something,” you say. “So he knows I’m not dead, at least.”
Joel nods.
“Sure,” he says.
You swallow. Look back down at your phone. The screen blinks with a battery warning.
“Fuck,” you mutter. “I need my charger. Can you—?”
“Yeah,” he says, quickly. “‘Course. Where ’s it?”
“Uh—nightstand. In the bedroom. The one on the right.”
He nods. He extricates himself from between your legs, a little reluctant, and you watch him disappear down the hallway.
You look back down at your phone. At your dad’s messages. Your last text to him is still plastered on the screen — something inane from San Antonio, when everything was still good. Normal. It makes your heart hurt a little.
You text him back quickly. Before your phone can die.
You: i’m fine. need a few days. we can talk when i'm home.
The service up here is hanging on by a thread. It takes a minute to deliver, but when it does his grey bubble pops up almost immediately. It takes another minute for his response to come through. And it’s not really what you’re expecting, when it does. It’s not angry. It’s just — short. It makes your throat swell a little.
Dad: OK. Be safe.
You lay your phone down on the desk. Face-down. It’s progress, you think. It’s something.
And then you wonder where the hell Joel is, because this place is not that big and he’s been gone way too long for a phone-charger scavenger hunt. You told him exactly where it is. So unless he’s blind—
“Joel,” you yell. “The nightstand on the right. It can’t be that hard to—”
He pokes his head around the corner. Steps out, slowly, until the sun washes his skin.
“…find,” you finish, lamely.
He moves closer to you, and it’s clear there’s something in his hand. Judging by the look on his face — narrowed gaze, crooked smile — and the way his fist is folded, tight, it’s not your charger. But there was only one other thing in that nightstand, which means—
He’s just a few feet from you, now. You think about sliding off of the desk, and darting under his arm — but he’s stepping in between your legs, again, and you let him cage you in.
You watch the gentle rise-fall of his chest under flannel. The way his smile drags wider when he unspools his fingers and shows you his palm.
“What’s this?” he drawls.
You know what he’s holding. You don’t have to look. You’re blushing before his fist can unfurl.
Your little black vibrator. The one you’d taken from your room, on an impulse, in a mad-dash sweep of your things. The one you’d squirreled away in the nightstand on the right, next to your fucking charger.
“Uh,” you say.
His eyes sparkle. He looks annoyingly smug. You figure he’s probably loving the look on your face right now, after you subjected him to torture by wooden-duck. This is payback, you think.
“Go on,” he urges.
He drags a rough thumb over the black shell, and your stomach clenches. A shiver crawls up your throat. Whatever’s been stirring in your core since the car ride up here sparks suddenly to life.
Something about that thing in his hand. How small it is. How smug he looks.
“It’s nothing,” you say, softly.
“Yeah?” He cocks his head. That one stray curl flips against his forehead. He pushes his thumb down, gently, and the vibrator buzzes to life in his palm.
You stare at it. So does he. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach.
“Don’t look like nothin’,” he murmurs.
He flicks it off. You swallow back a sound.
You lean in. Snatch it up, out of his hand. Your fingers close around the shell, and you ignore the fact they’re trembling.
He lets you take it. He looks amused, if anything. He likes watching you squirm.
“I just thought, maybe—” your cheeks are burning again, “—you wouldn’t want to, like — you know.”
He looks at you, nonplussed. You blink.
“Since I’m on my period?” you offer, weakly. “I didn’t know if you’d want to do—like, do anything, so—I just brought it in…case.”
He’s silent. Even more so than usual, if that’s possible.
“It’s totally fine, by the way,” you say, hurriedly. You’re pretty sure you’re just talking to talk, now, but — you can’t stop. “If you don’t want to. I wasn’t trying to—”
He tilts his head a little. Enough to show he’s listening. Enough to shut you up.
And then he puts his palm out. Face-up, in the small space between you both.
You know what he wants. He doesn’t have to ask. Your fingers flex around the toy, a little hesitant, but you give it up. You give it back.
His hand folds around the shell. He slides it into his jeans, into his pocket, and you watch it disappear.
The tension is too thick. Sticky. It’s hard to draw a breath. Outside the sun slips toward the water.
The light slants a little darker through the window. Almost blue. Almost dusk.
“Bedroom,” he says, and his voice is silk. Like smooth whiskey and the slipping sun. “Five minutes.”
And then he turns, and goes, and you count back from three hundred.
—
You wait five minutes, like he asked.
It feels excruciatingly long. But, then — you’re used to this, by now. The minutes with him go too quickly and the ones without him never end. You can’t ever seem to get it just right.
But the time does pass, eventually. You make it pass. You push yourself off the desk and wander into the bathroom. You take your clothes off — everything, except black underwear — and you take your tampon out, and you run a brush through your hair. Then you walk back to the living room, where his duffel bag is still sitting by the front door — and you fish one of his flannels from the top. It’s red and brown and smells like bourbon and it’s way too fucking big. But you button it up anyway, over your bare chest, and leave the top two undone.
It’s huge on you. The sleeves drip over your fingers. The hem drops just above your knees.
You like it. It’s warm. It feels like him.
And then your five minutes are up, just like that, and you follow his shadow to the bedroom.
You’re nervous, when you open the door. But you’ve gotten used to that, too. The constant swarm in your stomach when he calls you by name. The flush in your face right before you see his.
You take a quiet step inside. Let the door click shut behind you.
“Hi,” you say, softly.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed: Still dressed, in his belt and his boots and his jeans and his flannel. The sleeves are cuffed at his forearms, exposing tanned skin and corded muscle. His runaway curl is smoothed back into place.
There’s a towel spread across the sheets. One of the big, fluffy black ones you’d seen hanging by the shower. The edge hangs slightly off the bed.
He doesn’t say hi back. But he does give you a look — like, a look — that makes your throat run dry. His eyes roam your body: up your legs, over his flannel, over the bit of exposed skin where you’ve neglected the top buttons — and you watch them go dark.
“C’mere,” he says.
You take one step forward. Then another. There’s something intensely commanding about the way he sounds right now, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact he’s almost completely, totally silent, or the way he doesn’t move a muscle while he watches you approach. He only really moves once, to push his own sleeve higher. You watch his wrist flex with the motion.
You stop at the edge of the bed. He tilts his chin to look at you.
“Lie down,” he says.
You get the sense that this is not about to be a repeat of two nights prior, when you issued all the orders. You’re pretty sure that was a one-time thing. Or at least — a once-in-a-blue-moon thing, if the look on his face and the cut in his voice are any indication.
He’s back to his old self. More commanding, if that’s even possible, like he’s making up for lost time. His eyes are black.
“Don’t like repeatin’ myself,” he murmurs.
Your breath hitches. The tug between your legs is borderline painful. You have to bite back a whimper when you sink down onto the bed, on top of the sheets and on top of the towel.
He doesn’t move, still, when you lie down. He stays sitting at the foot of the bed. But he does turn slightly, to look at you, and his stare is so sharp you drop your own gaze.
He doesn’t do anything, so you pick up his slack. Or…try to. You bring shaky fingers to your flannel — his flannel — and start to pull at the buttons.
He shakes his head. Your fingers still.
“Don’t,” he says, gently.
So you don’t. You drop your hands. Let them fall useless to your sides.
And then he moves. Finally. He undoes his belt with deft fingers and slips it through his jeans with a soft, leathery hiss. It’s the only sound in the room. It makes your skin prick and your stomach clench.
He gets up, off of the bed, and you tilt your neck to follow him. He walks up to you, where your head is propped against the pillows, and bends to pick up your hands.
He’s gentle, while he does all this. Gentle and quiet and not at all the rough, teasing, domineering type you’ve gotten used to. But there’s something about him, still, that spells you into silence. Something that makes you listen, and makes your wrists go limp when he takes them both in one hand.
He pulls your hands up over your head. Your pulse beats a double-rhythm in his palm. He holds them to the headboard, to the second wooden slat of four, and ties them in place with his belt.
And you let him. You let him wrap the leather around your hands and the headboard, let him cinch it tight, let the metal buckle bite into your wrists. You don’t say a damn word and neither does he.
Not until he sits back down beside you, on the edge of the bed, and digs that black vibrator back out of his pocket.
Your breath picks up. Your legs pull. You flinch a little, tugging at his belt, but it doesn’t give. If anything the leather cinches tighter.
“What’re you…?”
He puts a broad hand on your thigh, inches above your knee. Heat flushes underneath his touch. The hem of your flannel bunches around his fingers.
He looks up at you.
“Said you weren’t sure ‘f I wanted it,” he says.
He flicks the vibrator on. It hums to life in his palm.
“Stupid fuckin’ question,” he murmurs. He drags his hand up the seam of your thigh, until his thumb grazes cotton. Your hips jerk a little.
He holds you in place with that hand. Puts the toy to your clit with the other.
“Makin’ sure y’never ask again,” he growls.
And then you really do buck your hips; pulling at his makeshift restraints, whining through your teeth while he teases you through cotton.
“Fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—”
“Shh,” he mumbles, half to himself. He moves the vibrator half an inch lower, clicks the setting higher, and fire shoots through your core. Your wrists wrench at the headboard. The wood doesn’t give. Neither does his belt. But you’ll have a bruise on both hands, you’re pretty sure, where the buckle gives a warning bite.
“Y’move too much,” he murmurs.
“S-sorry,” you pant, and you’re not really sure what you’re apologizing for, but you’re kind of delirious and you’ll say whatever he wants if he just — doesn’t stop. The pressure he’s putting on your clit is fucking — it’s ten times better than any time you’ve used this thing on yourself. You’re not sure if it’s just him, or if he’s got some kind of magic technique, or what, but —
“S’okay, baby,” he says, in that gentle, slopey drawl. “’S why we used the belt.”
Your legs are trembling, and you’re not really sure if it’s the toy or his voice or the words themselves, dripping to your skin like honey. You try to pull them together, against the ache he won’t fill, and his free hand tightens on your thigh.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. He sounds amused. His thumb strokes at the seam of your thigh. “Tie the rest ‘a you down, too, ‘f you don’t quit movin’.”
You whimper — something pitiful, pathetic — but you stop moving. Part of you wants to push him: rut your hips, and writhe against his belt, just to see if he’ll make good on his promise. Part of you wants him to.
But this is enough, for now. This is almost too much. He’s got your eyes rolling back, and he’s keeping you still with that big, broad palm above your knee. He flicks the setting higher, higher, highest — and you shout his name. You pitch forward, panting, and the belt snaps against your skin. It might hurt, if you weren’t so preoccupied.
“Fuck,” you plead, “Joel, p—fuck—”
“Too much?” he asks, gently.
You shake your head. Your hair is in your face, in your eyes, and you can’t shove it away. Your thigh flinches underneath his hand.
“No,” you punch out. “N—fuck, please don’t st—op.”
You’re close. He can tell, probably before you can. It never takes you long with the vibrator — that’s why you bought it — but Joel plus toy is something else entirely. It’s a hell of a lot different than when you use it yourself. You never push it past the first few settings. You’ve got an easy, relaxed routine, under your covers, in the comfort of your upstairs bedroom, or your dorm room, or wherever. It’s lazy. Languid. Sometimes there’s a video, to help things along. More often than not you just use your imagination.
And you always — always — think of Joel.
So having him here — actually here, flipping your lazy routine on its head, working the toy against your clit with the kind of practical skill that comes from a lifetime of using your hands —
It’s a whole lot better than your imagination. And you try to tell him that, or something like it, but your head is foggy and your vision is blurred and his knuckles are grazing the soaked-black fabric of your panties while he guides the toy along.
So you settle for his name, instead. It comes out broken on your tongue.
“S’good, baby,” he coaxes. “Good girl.”
You cum hard, then, with his name still on your lips and a slew of fractured curses behind that. His free hand lets up on your thigh. It’s still there, still warm and rough and comforting, but he’s not applying any pressure. He doesn’t have to keep you still.
He clicks the vibrator off. Moves it back, gently. The guys you’re used to would keep going, once they got a result — struck gold once, why stop digging? — but Joel knows when to stop, when to pull back, when to let you catch your breath. He knows how to read your voice, and your body, and the words that get tangled on their way up your throat.
He leans back while your breaths steady. You see his shape in your peripheral, putting the toy down gently on the nightstand, and then his hand is on your face and he’s pushing your hair back, away from your eyes and your mouth and your cheeks.
Even that touch makes you shiver. You figure you’re probably just fucked, when it comes to Joel Miller.
You pull up a little on the restraints. You want to kiss him. Or — you want him to kiss you, since there’s not much you can do.
He doesn’t give you what you want. He pulls back, and moves back to his familiar spot beside your legs. He drags an aimless hand up your calf, your knee, your thigh.
You suck in a breath. Push it out through your teeth.
He knows what you want. He picks up on the patterns in your breath; the way your panting turns to pleading.
“Can you —fuck—” you pull against his belt, “—just—fucking—untie me, please—”
His fingers drift up your thigh, ghosting cotton, and then — they drop. His touch trickles back to your calf. And then he starts again, even slower, and it’s softer than the toy, and gentler, and lighter, but it’s driving you just as crazy. Maybe more.
He takes his time, like he’s pretending to think. His touch skates higher.
“No,” he says, after a long pause. “Don’t think so.”
You make a long, frustrated sound. Drop your head back to the pillow. Your wrists go limp against his belt.
His thumb strokes at the edge of your panties. You gasp.
“Make ya a deal,” he drawls. “Gimme one more — ’n we’ll see ‘bout the belt.”
“We’ll see about the belt?”
He shrugs. It takes everything in you not to buck your hips into his thumb.
“Best I can do,” he says. “Take it or leave it.”
You stare at him. Then your head flops against the pillow, and you sigh.
“Fine.”
He smiles. You can feel it.
“Kinda like ya like this,” he says. “Ain’t so stubborn.”
He swipes past your swollen clit. You yelp.
“Fuck you,” you pant.
He hooks a finger through your waistband. Pulls your underwear down, down your thighs and over your knees and off around your ankles. Then he holds them, wrapped around his index finger, and tilts his head.
“We’ll do somethin’ ‘bout that mouth, next time,” he says.
He tosses your panties to the floor. Pushes his slipping sleeves back to his forearms. You roll your eyes, but you know he sees the blush that stains your cheeks.
His brow lifts.
“You’d like that, huh?” He smiles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.”
You mumble something. It sounds like a whimper. But it must be good enough for him, because he takes pity on you.
“What d’you want, baby?” he asks, softly. His gaze drifts to the nightstand. “Up t’you.”
You know what he’s asking — and with most guys you’d say yes, please, use the fucking vibrator, I thought you’d never ask — because its success rate is exponentially higher than most college boys’s clumsy fingers.
But this isn’t a college boy. This isn’t most guys. This is Joel, and you want Joel. Just Joel.
“No,” you tell him. “Just — you.”
He doesn’t move, so you add, a little awkwardly —
“—please.”
He blinks. Then he snaps back, like he’s just — recalibrating. He’s got the same look on his face as he did half an hour ago, when you told him you loved his little wood duck.
“Is that…okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Fuck. Yeah, ‘course it’s okay. Just thought—” he’s looking at the nightstand again, with a curious kind of look on his face, “—thought y’might like that better.”
That’s stupid, you think. It’s a stupid fucking question, even though with anyone else it would be true.
“No,” you say, quietly, and you’re blushing, still, but for a different reason. “I like you better.”
He swallows. His jaw flexes.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothin’,” he says, again. And then — softly, “—just don’t know what t’do with you.”
He looks at you. His fingers are still splayed at the inside of your thigh, half an inch from where you want him most. You stare at them; at his hand sprawled on your skin, and he follows your gaze.
“I know where you can start,” you mumble.
And then he smiles again — that crooked, happy, satisfied smile — and his hand slides higher.
“Hold still this time,” he says, in that honeyed drawl, “or the belt stays.”
It’s not much of a threat. You like the way the leather hugs your wrists. You like that it belongs to him. You like that you do, too.
But you play along. You nod. And when he slips two fingers inside you you try your hardest not to squirm.
You don’t think you’re that successful. But he’s nice about it, or he’s distracted, because he doesn’t say another word. He lets you thrash against his belt, and writhe into his hand, and shout his name when he crooks his fingers and pumps his wrist and hits something inside you that that fucking toy can’t ever reach.
And — if it’s even possible — you cum faster on his fingers than you did with the vibrator.
He talks you through it. Murmured words and quiet praise. You tell him you’re close, again, and he tells you he’s got you, good girl, y’look so beautiful like this.
It’s the last one that sends you over the edge, you think. The way he calls you beautiful, in that molasses drawl, quiet and reverential and a little bit awestruck when you come apart in his hands.
And then he’s untying you; unclasping the buckle, releasing you from the headboard, and you’re undressing him before you can rub at your wrists. You can do that later, in the dark. You can ice his face and then your hands and then his face, again.
He kicks his boots off. His jeans are easy to get off, without his belt in the way, and he helps you with his shirt when your fingers shake. He leaves yours on, though. He stops you, when you go to take it off for the second time tonight.
“Leave it,” he says, and his voice is so dark, so deep, that it stops you in your tracks. “Like you like this.”
By this he means — in his clothes. In his scent. Wrapped up in him, in every way. He likes the way his shirts are too big, and he likes the way the smell of pine and coffee linger on your skin. You’d say he likes showing off that you’re his, but — there’s no one around. He just likes to see it for himself.
Which you knew, already. It’s why you pull his shirts out of his duffel, whenever you get the chance. It’s why you’re swimming in his flannel now.
So you nod, shyly. You keep his shirt on, and when he leans forward, and cups your jaw in his hand, it feels like he’s everywhere. On your skin and in the air and on your lips, when he kisses you.
You fall back against the pillows. He climbs over you, on top of you, and his knees dig into the towel. And this is the part, now, where you might start getting self-conscious — about the fact you’re on your period, and he’s gone to all this trouble, even though it’s really no trouble at all, about the fact you might make a mess, about ten thousand other things that couldn’t matter less.
But you don’t think about that. You think about Joel. And when your mind slips, into that fuzzy, peaceful space, you think about the way he feels, and the way he tastes, and you spell that you love him in drifting fingers down his back.
You have nothing but time, so he takes his. He drags his teeth up your neck and smoothes the marks with his tongue. He kisses your collar, where the edge of his shirt meets the dip in your skin, and his scruff leaves gentle scrapes. You put your hands in his hair, in his roots, and he lets you guide him.
And then — finally, finally, he draws away from you, and pulls back on his haunches to take off his boxers.
You watch him, while he does. You watch him toss them onto the floor and then fold back over you, chest to chest. His cock nudges at your entrance and you spread your legs, lifting your hips for him — but he doesn’t push into you. Even though it would be easy; even though he’s achingly hard and you’re soaked for him and you’re practically begging him, please.
He doesn’t fuck you. Not yet. He noses your cheek, instead, surprisingly gentle, and he kisses you there. And then he kisses the edge of your brow, and your temple, and your forehead. Just — gentle. Soft. Like he’s telling you something, or — trying to — but this is all his mouth can do.
He stops when you whine, softly, because you need him closer. You put your palms on his chest and push up, lightly. He breaks his kiss and pulls back. His forehead hangs over yours.
“Please,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay, angel.”
His hands are splayed somewhere beside your head. He moves one of them, now, to wrap around the base of his cock and guide himself into you. He slides in easily, so fucking easily, like he just fits there. Your head sinks into the pillow and your nails sink into his skin, into the muscle on his arms, and you’re sure he’ll have marks there. Little crescent cuts to go with all the rest.
He sets a slow, patient rhythm. He’s usually rougher, faster, and you’re pretty sure his show of self-restraint is driving you crazier than him. He’s hitting something deep inside you, over and over, not quite fast enough to push you over the edge but steady enough to keep you there.
And even though the cabin is empty, and you don’t have to be quiet, you are — because he’s kissing you. He swallows all your quiet moans and his own tangled, whimpered name.
He pulls halfway out of you. Drags his mouth away to breathe. You gasp at the emptiness but he swallows that, too — he flexes his hips, and thrusts into you, and his tongue is sliding back to yours before he’s even fully gone.
You have never — never — fucked Joel like this. You’ve never fucked anyone like this. Not in a dorm room, or a frat party, or a childhood bedroom that feels too cramped, now. Not your ex-boyfriend Carter, or any guy at school, or Hayes.
Not anyone. Not ever. Not until now.
“Feel good,” he’s mumbling, in those rare seconds when his mouth leaves yours. “Feel fuckin’—good.”
He pulls out, again. Thrusts back into you. This time he groans, into your mouth, and his hips stumble a little. His cock twitches. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, clench around him, and he breaks your kiss with a gasp.
“Fuck,” he pants. “D-do that again.”
You’d make him work for it, usually, but you can’t bring yourself to tease him. You drag him closer; squeeze tight around his cock, and his head drops to your shoulder. He pushes into you —less steady, less restrained — and finally picks up the pace.
You loop your hands around the back of his neck. Let your head go hazy. But when the pressure at the pit of your stomach starts to build, you tell him —
“—Wait—”
—in a shallow, breathless voice.
He stops. Immediately. He slips out of you, and his head whips from your shoulder, and he looks at you with wide eyes.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What's wrong? Did I—”
“No,” you say, quickly. “No. I just—”
You trail off, a lot more self-conscious now than you were two seconds ago. Easier to demand things of him when he’s railing you, you guess.
“I just wanted to—or, I wanted you to—”
You’re blushing, again. Your eyes dart to the side, away from his.
The concern drips out of his stare. He knows exactly what you want — what you’re trying to ask for — because he knows you.
Now, he looks — amused. And fucking smug, again.
“All y’gotta do is ask,” he drawls.
You swallow.
“Or you could just tell me,” you say, quietly.
You watch his eyes go dark. He likes that. You know he does, because you know him.
“Flip over,” he says.
You flip over. Stomach-down on the towel. Your cheek digs into the pillow. His hands wrap around your calves and he drags you down, lower, and you let him manhandle you. You let him move you the way he wants.
And then he’s settling over you again, and you can’t see him but you can feel him. His weight, behind you. His hand, when he shoves your shirt up and puts his palm on the small of your back.
“Hold still,” he says, for the thousandth time tonight. You smile.
“Or what?” You grin into the pillow. Try to lift your hips and push against him. But you keep forgetting how strong he is, even with one lazy palm sprawled out across your back. He pins you down too easily. “You’re gonna bring out the belt?”
You hear his huff.
“Keep ya still without the belt,” he says.
“Not a chance.”
You can feel him roll his eyes. This must’ve been how he felt, earlier this afternoon, when you’d rolled your eyes behind his back. You can't see him, but you just know.
“No?” he drawls.
It’s a terrible attempt to rile him up. But he’s humoring you.
You mumble your no into the pillow. Shake your head.
You hear him sigh above you. Then his palm lifts off the small of your back, just briefly, just for a second — before he cracks it down across your ass. It’s not hard, really — not hard enough to hurt — but it’s enough to leave a mark. Enough to make you yelp.
“F—”
He does it again. Same spot. The sting that sticks behind is sweet.
You swear into the pillow. Your skin glows white-hot. If he flipped you over right now, you’re not sure if you’d slap him, or kiss him, or beg him to fuck you.
Probably the last one. Definitely the last one.
“You never fuckin’ listen,” he says.
His palm settles over your ass. Over the handprint you’re sure he’s already made.
“You gonna hold still?”
This time you nod. As best you can.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say.
He squeezes your ass.
“‘Atta girl,” he says.
Then he slides into you, one hand braced on the towel beside you and the other on your ass, and you have to bite into the pillowcase to keep from mangling his name.
The angle he’s hitting is so much deeper, and so much different, and he’s splitting you open all over again, and —
“Fuck,” he pants, “you—fuck.”
He flexes his hips. Thrusts deeper into you. This is a much different pace than the one he’d set before, when he’d peppered you with gentle kisses and gentler words. This is something else entirely. This is rough, and untethered, and exactly what you tried to ask for.
He fists your hair in his palm and pulls, yanking your chin up off of the pillow, wrapping your hair around his knuckles while he slams into you. You gasp for breath.
“This what you needed, baby girl?”
You say something. You’re not sure what.
He pulls on your hair. Tilts your neck back, further.
“Yes,” you yelp, “Fuck! Y-yes.”
He lets you go. Lets your head drop back to the pillow. His hand is back on your ass, splayed out in a possessive sprawl.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “’S what you needed.”
He pushes deeper into you. Groans, softly. His flannel scrunches up around your cheek, your mouth, and you bite down on the fabric.
His hand drifts lower, over your ass. His thumb skims the ring of muscle there.
You tighten. He notices — he must — because he stills, for a minute. But his thumb doesn’t move.
There’s a beat. You take a breath.
“No?” he asks, softly, and you already know what he’s asking.
You go to shake your head, reflexively — you’ve said no every time, to everyone, no matter how creative or long-winded or desperate the proposition. Just — no.
“S’okay, angel,” he says, gently. “Don’t have to.”
“No,” you say, quickly — but you’re not saying no to him, you realize. “I want — I want you to.”
“Don’t sound too sure.”
“No, I am, I’ve just never—”
There’s silence. You can feel him above you, gauging your reaction. Gauging the blush on your upturned cheek.
“I want to,” you say, again. And you mean it. You want to, with him.
“Okay,” he murmurs. But his thumb still doesn’t move. He doesn’t move.
“Joel,” you say, a little impatient, now, because you’ve been on the edge for so long, and you just gave him permission, so what the fuck is he waiting f—
“Relax,” he says, quietly. He’s not rough anymore. He’s just Joel. “Relax, angel.”
You only realize how … not relaxed you are when you actually, really try to relax. Everything is tense. Your jaw, your stomach, the fist you’ve wrapped around his sheets.
You’re nervous. Which — okay, fine — but this is Joel. With the gentle Texas drawl, and the warm hands, and the flannel shirt that smells like sunshine.
It’s just Joel. And you trust Joel.
So you do relax. For real. You let your jaw go loose and untangle your fingers.
“I trust you,” you mumble, into the pillow.
He’s quiet.
“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I know, baby.”
Then he pushes back into you, stretching you out, and you breathe his name into his flannel. His thumb nudges at your ass and you push your hips back, into him. You want him to.
“Easy,” he murmurs, and you’re not sure who he’s talking to. His thumb pushes into you — just the tip — and you hiss into his shirt. But that’s it. It hurts for a second, maybe, and then it doesn’t. He’s crooking his thumb, pressing deeper into you, hitting something deep inside you, and you just feel full. You feel like he’s fucking everywhere — inside you, and on your skin, and in the words you can’t say.
“Fuck,” you gasp, “Joel, fuck—”
“Good?” he asks. He’s not really moving, and you realize he’s waiting for your green-light: waiting for you to re-set the pace.
“Yes,” you plead. “Fuck, yes, please just—”
You whimper. Mumble around his shirt.
“—don’t stop,” you tell him. “Don’t fucking — stop.”
That’s all the green-light he needs. He snaps his hips up, into you, and he fucks you at that frantic, furious pace you’d begged him for. You push back weakly; against his hips, against his thumb, but you’re content to just let him take over. You can’t think straight, anyway. Everything is foggy and white and bright, and when he takes you to the edge this time you let yourself fall.
“Doin’ so good, baby,” he’s saying, over and over again, good girl, good girl, doin’ so fuckin’ good f’me, look so good like this—and you can barely hear him, because you’re so blissed out, but you feel him, when his hips trip into you and he spills inside you with a strangled cry. You feel him, when his chest crumbles to your back. You feel his heart beat through your shoulder blades, frenzied and wild.
It takes you a long time to catch your breath. It takes him even longer. When you’re aware of your surroundings again — when you can hear things that aren’t your own pulse between your ears — you roll over and touch him.
His eyes are closed. Or half-closed, at least. He looks like he’s dozing, or drifting, or in some kind of happy, dreamlike, almost-sleep. You feel kind of bad, waking him up. He hardly ever looks this…peaceful.
You prod him. When that doesn’t work you nuzzle into his shoulder, and kiss his cheek, and nip at his jaw until he groans.
“Mmmph,” he grumbles, which is not usually a sentence, but which you’ve learned in Joel-speak can mean a myriad of things, like who the fuck is bothering me and why the fuck are they bothering me and can you please stop fucking bothering me.
“Move,” you say, pushing at his arm. It’s like moving a grizzly bear. But he does move, eventually, with a long-suffering sound that makes you roll your eyes and laugh.
“What?” he grumbles.
“The towel,” you say, and you hate that you still sound shy. That that self-conscious streak has wriggled back in. “I’m gonna — I need to clean up. So do you.”
He opens his eyes, then. He rolls over and frowns.
“Go get ’n the shower,” he says.
“But—”
“I’ll take care ‘f it,” he says.
You look hesitantly at the towel. At him.
“I can do it,” you say.
“Didn’t say y’couldn’t,” he drawls. Then he’s rolling off the bed, and tugging the towel out from under you, and you have no choice but to stand up and let his shirt drip back over your knees.
“But—”
“But nothin’,” he says. He nods toward the bathroom. “Go. Hot water ain’t great. Only lasts a couple minutes.”
You stare at him. But then you go, because he said so, and there’s really no arguing with him. So you shower while he puts the towel and the sheets and the pillowcases in the laundry, and when he’s done he joins you in there.
The hot water is almost gone, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t complain. He washes your hair, and works out the tangles, and swipes soap off your jaw with even soapier fingers.
“Thanks,” you say, a little awkwardly. “For — cleaning up.”
He shrugs.
“It’s nothin’,” he says. And it is nothing, to him. Everything is just — nothing. Except for you.
You let him have a turn under the water. It’s pretty much icy, now. Your teeth clatter while you wait for him.
“We should probably make dinner,” you say, while he sloughs shampoo from his hair.
He opens his eyes. Blinks water at you.
He’s a terrible chef. And you’re too wiped to even think about cooking. You both know both of these things, so you just — stare at each other. Eventually he turns the water off, and bundles you in a towel, and dries himself off with another.
“Or,” you say, slowly, “we could just eat the Ben and Jerry’s.”
He pauses, mid-towel dry.
“Chunks of real cookie dough,” you remind him.
“Mm.” He pulls a tee shirt on over his head. “Lead the way.”
—
You do eat the Ben and Jerry’s. The whole thing, between the two of you, and even he has to admit that it’s — in his own words — pretty alright.
After that you’re both full, and a little hopped up on half a pint of sugar, so you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap and you ask him every stupid question that flies into your mind. He rubs your feet while you talk, like he’s silently praying you might just wear yourself out.
But he indulges you. There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s turned the fireplace on, with a lighter he found somewhere deep in the kitchen, and his face flickers in the glow — orange, red, orange, again.
“Favorite color,” you say.
He tips his head to the ceiling.
“Brown.”
“Oh my god. Brown?”
“’S wrong with brown?”
“Dirt is brown. Mud is brown. No one’s favorite color is brown.”
But you’re realizing, as you’re saying it, that you’re wrong. His hair is brown. Deep brown, dark brown, like a forest after rain. His eyes are brown. Light, sometimes, like water over silt, and sometimes almost-black. His flannels are brown: brown and red, brown and yellow, brown and something, and he always looks like autumn.
So he’s right, you think, when he says brown is his favorite color. You think maybe it’s yours now, too.
“What?” he asks, when you’re quiet too long.
You look up at him. Brown eyes, tired. Brown hair, tousled.
“Nothing,” you say. “Next question.”
“Childhood pet,” you say.
“Black lab. Cooper. Used t’hunt ducks.”
“Like that one?” You nod toward the desk, where his little wood duck sits facing the moon.
He makes a soft sound.
“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
“And when did you start wood…working?”
“Carvin’,” he amends. His thumb stills on the arch of your foot while he thinks. “Dunno,” he shrugs, after a while. “After Sarah came ‘long, I guess. ’S—relaxin’.”
“You should sell them,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Like. At a Farmer’s Market, or something.”
He half-laughs. But then he sees you’re serious — or as serious as you can manage, in your fucked-out, sugar-high, loopy sort of bliss, and he shakes his head.
“Nah,” he says.
“Why not?”
“‘Cause no one would buy ‘em,” he says. “They ain’t any good. And,” he adds, when your mouth snaps open to protest, “—‘cause they’re—part ‘a me.”
Your mouth snaps back shut.
“What d’you mean, part of you?”
“They’re mine,” he says, a little helpless. “I made ‘em. Don’t wanna give ‘em away.”
“Sell them,” you amend.
“Don’t wanna sell ‘em,” he says. “Ain’t worth anythin’, anyway. ‘Cept to me.”
“And me.” You prop yourself up on your elbows. Look at him across the couch. “They’re worth something to me.”
He actually does smile at that. Not — smug, or self-satisfied — but shy. Sweet and shy and a little bit sheepish.
“Okay,” you say. “One more question.”
“Said that ten questions ago.”
“I was lying. This is the last one.”
“Mm,” he says. But he lets you go.
“What’s his name?”
“What?” He blinks at you. “Who?”
“The duck,” you say. “What’s his name?”
He’s silent, for a moment.
“Ain’t got a name,” he says. “’S a duck.”
“Ducks have names. Donald Duck. Daisy Duck.”
“Those ‘re fake ducks,” he says.
“So’s yours,” you say.
“Jesus,” he says.
But it’s soundproof logic, so — you win. He sighs, heavily.
“Clyde,” you say, after a minute.
“Clyde?”
“Yeah. That’s his name. He’s British.”
“Mm.” He leans back against the cushions. His hand strokes a lazy line, from your calf to your ankle and back up again. “Long way from home.”
“Yeah,” you agree. Your eyes are heavy, now. You rest your head against the arm of the couch and stretch your legs out in his lap. “Poor Clyde.”
He chuckles, softly, and that makes you smile. You flex your foot against his hand and close your eyes.
You sit quietly for a few long minutes. You maybe — maybe — fall asleep.
His voice wakes you. His gentle hand below your knee.
“Tired?” he murmurs.
“No,” you say, without opening your eyes. “I’m — resting my eyes.”
“Okay,” he says. “Well. Y’can rest your eyes in bed.”
You try to mumble something in protest. You don’t want to go anywhere. You like it right here, with your feet in his lap and your head on the couch and the fireplace warming your skin. You like how close he is, how domestic. You don’t want it to change. You don’t want the sun to rise.
You want to stay right here.
But you’re fighting a losing battle, because he’s moving your legs aside, gently, and standing up off the couch, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing at all.
“C’mon,” he mutters.
You don’t argue anymore. You let your head slump in his shoulder and your nose nudge at his neck. You kiss him there, lightly, and you hear his hum in response. Warm and silk-smooth.
He puts you down and disappears for a few minutes — to lock the door, and turn the fireplace off, and check the windows are sealed. Then he comes back in, and shucks his sweatpants and his shirt off, and when he climbs into bed beside you you nuzzle at his side.
He’s like sleeping with a space heater. Every part of him is a thousand fucking degrees. Which is nice, because you’re freezing. You chalk it up to genetics, or the half-pint of frozen ice cream floating through your bloodstream. Either way he lets you burrow into him. Under his arm and into the warm plane of his chest.
“G’night,” you say, softly.
He kisses you. Somewhere buried in your hair.
“Night, angel,” he murmurs.
You could swear he mumbles something else, too — something softer — but you’re half-asleep already. You don’t hear, and he doesn’t repeat it.
And then you really do sleep, wrapped up in his arms and pressed to his heart, and when you dream they’re all of him.
—
When you wake up it’s still dark. Which sucks, but — you have to pee, and the only thing left over from your Ben and Jerry’s dinner is a fucking headache, and you have cramps that bite you awake.
Great, you think. It’s the trifecta.
And there’s something else, too, something bigger and heavier that won’t let you sleep, but you don’t — or you won’t — think about that, right now. Right now you roll out of bed, eyes adjusting to the dark, and you hobble over hardwood to the bathroom.
You only turn the light on when you’re sealed inside. Joel’s a heavy sleeper, but — still. You don’t want to wake him. He deserves the rest.
You dig around in your bag and slam two Tylenol — one for the headache and one for the cramps. Or so you figure. You use the bathroom, wash your hands — and by the time you’re back in the bedroom you’re wide awake.
Naturally.
So — fuck it. You grab a hoodie from your duffel and slip out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the living room and to the front door Joel’s dead-bolted.
You undo the latch and let yourself outside. You leave the door open but close the screen behind you — so you won’t lock yourself out, on accident. You don’t love the thought of spending the night — or whatever’s left of it, at least — outside.
You’re not sure what time it is. If it’s closer to morning or to night. The sky is pitch-black, littered silver with stars, and the water on the pebbled lake is glittering, moon-grey.
It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. You can’t remember the last time you looked at the stars.
You pick your way over to one of Tommy’s Adirondack chairs, sprawled out across the porch. It’s huge — big enough for two people, easily — and you slouch down against the slats. It makes you smile, how small you feel. In the too-big chair under the too-big sky. You put your hand on the wooden arm and tilt your head up to the stars.
Behind you the screen door opens, and whines, and then shudders shut. Joel’s heavy footsteps join you on the porch.
You twist around in the chair. He’s leaning up against the cabin wall, in a grey Dallas Cowboys shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair is mussed. He’s got a chipped mug in his hands that he cups with both palms.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. His drawl is still thick. He must’ve just woken up.
“Not really.” You frown. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He shrugs.
“Didn’t wake me,” he says. “Room just felt empty.”
You’re quiet. Steam twists out of the mug and drifts apart in the cold air.
You don’t know what to say. That thing that will not let you sleep is getting bigger, heavier.
So you nod, quietly. And you accept the mug, when he peels himself off of the wall and offers it with both hands.
“What is it?” you ask, a little skeptical. You put your nose over the rim and sniff.
“Tea,” he says. There’s a pause, then he adds, “Peppermint.”
Peppermint. Your favorite. You told him as much, just a few nights ago — and apparently he listened.
You take a tentative sip. Smile. He made it right, this time. Kept the bag in long enough.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Had some at that gas station, on our way up. I just thought—” He shrugs. “Just ’n case.”
“Just in case,” you repeat. You take another sip.
“It’s good,” you say, quietly. “Thanks.”
He smiles. You think he looks pleased. He takes a seat in the other Adirondack chair, beside you, and you watch the moon paint his face silver. His jaw, his cheek, the bruise under his eye and the slice across his nose. Everything looks lighter. More muted, less angry.
You put the mug down on the chair’s arm. Then you stand, careful not to let it spill, and you go to his chair, instead.
He makes room for you right away. You don’t ask him to, but he does. He scoots back, spreads his legs, and you drape yourself across his lap. His nose nestles in your hair, by the shell of your ear.
"Y'alright?" he asks.
"Yeah," you tell him. "I think so."
But you're not, really, and he can tell. He can read your mind, or something close to it. So you're not all that surprised when he noses your ear, a little more insistent, and says—
“Hey. Talk t'me."
The irony of Joel Miller, asking you to talk to him. You’d laugh, if it didn’t feel like something was sitting on your chest.
“I don’t know,” you mumble. But you do know. “It’s nothing.”
He’s quiet, for a moment. You wonder if he’ll let it go.
“Your dad?” he asks.
“No,” you say. Which is the truth. You haven’t thought about your dad since you texted him, half a day ago now. It’s not him.
Joel is silent again. You turn in his arms to look him in the eye.
“It’s nothing,” you repeat. “It’s not—it’s stupid.”
He takes a breath. Lifts a finger to your face, and traces a strand of hair.
“Bet it ain’t stupid,” he says, softly.
“Yeah.” You push out a laugh. It sounds hollow. “It is. It’s dumb. Let’s just — drop it.”
You can feel him studying you. Watching you. But he’s quiet, and he doesn’t ask you again, because you asked him to drop it. He only says, “okay, angel,” in that syrupy drawl, and strokes your arm with a rough thumb.
And you appreciate that. You do. But you kind of fucking wish he’d ask you until you break, if only to get this weight off of your ribs and your chest and your stomach and your heart.
But he doesn’t. Because that’s not Joel. Joel listens. He listens when you tell him your favorite tea. He listens when you tell him to leave it alone.
He changes the subject, instead. He brings his hand up beside your face and points to the sky.
“’S, uh — Orion, I think.”
“Oh.” You blink. The change in subject throws you a little, but — you follow his index finger. Squint up at the dark. You have no fucking idea what you’re looking at, but he seems eager enough.
“Sure,” you lie. It all looks the same to you. Just a bunch of streaky silver. Beautiful streaky silver, but — still.
“To the left,” he says, gently, and you can hear the smile on his lips. His breath tickles your cheek, your neck, your collar.
He drops his pointer finger. Puts his hand on your jaw, instead, and tilts your head in the right direction.
“There,” he mutters. “Now look.”
And you actually do see it, this time.
At least, you think you do. It’s hard to concentrate, with his fingers so close to your neck. With his voice like starlit silk in your ear.
You shift a little in his lap. The wind whistles, whinging off the lake, and his arm tightens reflexively around you. Possessive. Protective. But — gentle, too. Always gentle.
It bubbles up in your throat again. That thing you can’t keep down. That thing that will not let you sleep.
“Joel,” you whisper. It sounds like a whine.
“Yeah.”
You turn to look at him again. His hand is still on your jaw, fingers slack, just — holding you. His thumb rolls over your chin.
You shake your head. Fuck.
“Yeah,” he repeats. “I know, baby.”
“No you don’t,” you say. Your throat feels tight. You’re angry, you think — not with him, just — at the sky. At Orion. At yourself. Just fucking say it.
“I want—but I don’t want to—”
His thumb inches to your bottom lip. He holds it there, effectively shutting you up.
“S’okay,” he says, softly.
His thumb strokes higher — to the edge of your mouth and then back down, over your chin, to the ridge of your jaw. He’s tracing you. Mapping you like the stars.
“S’okay, angel,” he echoes, and you’re still shaking your head when he speaks again. Low. Gentle. So, so gentle. “I love you, too.”
taglist (lmk if you wanna be added):
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OBSESSED OBSESSED OBSESSED 😭
blue skies
12.2k / dbf!joel x f!reader
official dbf!joel playlist
warnings: 18+, minors dni. alright y'all. you know the drill. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s), dbf!joel, dom!joel, use of gags, spitting, fingering, oral (f! receiving (x2! get it girl!)), unprotected p in v, joel dressed in his slutty work clothes
a/n: this is it y'all. we made it. the (sort of) finale of dbf!joel, with many future one-shots to come. i wanna thank each and every one of you for coming along for the ride. it has been so, so much fun. you made my summer. i can't wait to explore their future with you guys.
i love y'all. thank you, seriously, from the bottom of my heart. your artwork, your analysis, your playlists and moodboards and shirts and a thousand other insanely creative projects that y'all have undertaken are extraordinary and they mean the WORLD to me. you all mean the world to me.
going forward, i'll be working on more projects, as well as adding to this universe with drabbles, one-shots, etc. i've already gotten some great requests, and i have some ideas of my own - but if there's anything you'd like to see my requests are always open. i'll try my best to make it happen.
i love y'all a whole lot. here's to many more adventures. 🤍 🤠
ALSO - my computer, or tumblr, or a combination of both rolled over and died when i tried to edit my taglist. so - no more taglist. going forward, follow @jrrmintfics and turn on notifications to see new fic postings!
this is part 13 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12
masterlist here. kofi here, if you wanna leave a tip :)
“I love you,” he mutters. Just low enough for you to hear. “You’re just drunk,” you tease. His hand tightens on your leg. “No,” he growls. “I love you.” You look up at him. His eyes are dark. “How much?” you whisper.
You don’t see your dad right away. You have this irrational fear he’ll be waiting in the entryway, coiled up behind the door like an overeager rattlesnake. So you’re wincing, a little, when you turn the key in the lock and ease your way inside. You’re waiting for him to pounce.
But he doesn’t dart around the corner. He’s not waiting in the dark. He’s not in the hallway, or in the dim-lit lead-up to the dining room. You poke your head into the kitchen and he’s not in there, either.
The house is quiet. Almost calm.
You kick your shoes off. Climb upstairs.
Your room is exactly how you left it: bed unmade, sheets tangled, clothes across the dresser — and it relaxes you, in some way, to know your dad hasn’t been in here. He hasn’t snooped. Hasn’t tried to piece things back together. He’s just — given you your space.
You shrug your duffel off your shoulder. Kick it over to the bed. You set Joel’s duck down, on the edge of your nightstand, and tilt its tiny wooden head to face your pillow.
You smile. Then you dig the two polaroids out of your back pocket — both of you, both filthy — and shove those in the depths of a drawer. All the way at the back. You set a book on top of them for good measure.
And then you take a shower — like, a molten-hot, thousand-degree, skin-melting shower — because a cabin in the woods is nice enough but there’s nothing like proper, civilized water pressure. Temperatures that don’t run cold. Your own soap in the corner.
It’s nice, until you step out smelling like strawberries instead of Joel. And then you miss that stupid fucking ice shower.
You towel off. Pull on an old tee shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. You wander out to the stairs and peer over the landing.
Your dad is standing at the bottom of the stairs. He’s got one foot on the first step and the other firmly planted on the ground. His hand is pancaked on his knee. The other dangles at his side. He looks like he can’t quite decide if he should start the trek up.
You reel back half a step. Make a small, surprised sound.
“I didn’t see you downstairs,” you say.
“I was out back.” He pauses. The hand on his knee rubs a tight, nervous circle. “Didn’t hear ya come in.”
“Oh,” you say. You blink. Water drips from your hair to your collar, soaking the fabric there. It winds ice-cold down your spine. “Yeah.”
And then — because fuck it, might as well address the elephant on the staircase — you add, “—Joel dropped me off.”
“Right,” he says, after an agonizing beat. “Okay.”
But that’s all he says. He doesn’t lunge up the stairs. He doesn’t snap. His knuckles don’t curl and splinter the rail.
He’s calmer, you think. Subdued. He nods deferentially when you start down the steps, a little tentative, and when you reach him at the bottom he moves aside to let you pass.
“You, uh—” He clears his throat. “You leavin’ again?”
“I don’t know,” you say. You let the silence hang. “Depends.”
He nods, slowly.
“I figured we could — talk first, at least,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says. He takes his foot off the stairs. Plants them both back on the ground. You think he looks relieved. “Yeah, ‘course.”
He follows you into the living room. You claim the couch and he takes a chair, close but not too close. He puts his hands on his thighs and drills his fingers into denim.
You draw your knees up to your chest. Your jaw tightens and you work it slack.
“Okay,” you say, finally.
“Okay,” he repeats.
“No screaming,” you tell him. “Shouting. Yelling. Whatever. If you raise your voice—” your voice wavers, “—I’ll leave. Like — that’s it. I’m gone.”
It’s more authoritative than you feel. You’re not used to laying down the law. That’s always been your dad’s job.
But you’re dead fucking serious, and you guess he can tell. Because he nods, quietly, and repeats after you.
“No screamin’,” he promises.
You take a deep breath. So does he.
“Joel and I—”
He stiffens. You ignore him.
“I know it’s a lot,” you say.
He chuckles. It sounds hollow.
“It’s not what I expected,” you say. “I didn’t, like — I didn’t plan it. Neither did he. It just — happened.”
“And it kept happening,” you say, before he can respond. Before you can lose your nerve. “It kept happening, because I wanted it to. Because he was — he was gentle, and thoughtful, and kind.”
Your dad is quiet. He turns his fingers into fists and taps them once against his knees.
“Joel Miller I know ain’t any ‘a those things.”
You swallow, hard. Something brittle rises in your throat. Something defensive.
“Then maybe you don’t know him very well,” you say, softly.
Your own fingers are balled into fists.
Your dad is quiet, again. Then his fingers relax and he hangs his head.
“Maybe not,” he says.
There’s a heavy sort of silence. You watch your dad watch the ground.
When he speaks he doesn’t lift his head. He addresses the carpet, instead of your face. But you hear him well enough.
“He’s good t’you?” he mumbles, and the tops of his cheeks go red. “He’s — he’s good?”
“Yeah,” you tell him. Your eyes sting. You’re not sure why. “Yes.”
He nods absently. Strokes the crown of his knee.
“Listen,” you say, and you think maybe you’ve got the hang of this whole setting boundaries thing, because your voice doesn’t tremble. “I know it’s — surprising.”
Another laugh from dad. Another shake of his head you ignore.
“I’m sorry I lied to you,” you say. “I am. But I’m not — I’m not sorry that I love him. And I’m not asking you to like it — believe me, you’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t—”
You take another deep breath. In. Out.
“—but you have to respect me,” you say, quietly. “You have to respect this. And you cannot—”
Here it is. The quiver in your throat, like a too-taut bowstring. Salt tears on your tongue. They spring up before you say the words, so you try again. Hushed, hissed. Angry.
“You cannot — fucking — touch him.”
Your dad looks up. You stare at each other. He’s got that deer in the headlights wrinkle in his brow.
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t do that.”
He’s quiet.
“He didn’t even fight back,” you say, softly. “He didn’t even touch you.”
“You know why?” you demand. The tears shift: to the tip of your tongue, to the well of your eyes. You sniff them back. “You know why he didn’t?”
He doesn’t answer. But he shakes his head. Just once. No.
“Because of me,” you say. “Because he didn’t want to hurt me.”
That lands. You know it does. You see the words punch, right under his gut.
“You get it?” you breathe.
“That’s what he said?” he winces. “Joel?”
“He didn’t have to.”
He shakes his head. Puts his hands up to his forehead.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Yeah,” you say.
“Fuck,” he repeats.
“Yeah,” you say.
“I — do,” he starts, in that awkward, stilted, dad-speak. “I do respect you. Y’know. You’re an adult. You’re smart as hell. ‘Course I respect you.”
“Show me, then,” you say. “Respect this.”
He hesitates. Nods.
“Can’t promise I’ll like it,” he says. “’N if he puts one goddamn foot outta line —”
“Dad.”
“I’ll try,” he says. He nods, again. He sounds sincere. “I can — try.”
It’s not picture-perfect. He doesn’t get down on his knees, and beg your forgiveness, and give you both his undying blessing. Sparrows aren’t singing the song of your reconciliation on the windowsill, à la Disney channel. You’re not hugging it out.
But it’s something. It’s a start. And when you manage a very small, very tentative smile, he volleys it back.
“Okay,” you say, softly.
“Okay,” he agrees.
You lapse back into silence. He drums at his knees.
“Joel,” he says, finally, “is he…?”
“He’s fine,” you say, and you still sound defensive. Thorny. There’s a prickle on your skin whenever Joel’s name leaves your father’s lips. “You fucked him up pretty good. But I —”
I fixed him, you want to say.
“He’s fine,” you say again, instead.
“Good,” he says. “That’s good.”
There’s an awkward beat. You’re not sure what to say. Mercifully — or, perhaps, the opposite of — your dad fills it for you.
“’N you’re — bein’ safe, at least,” he fumbles.
“Jesus, dad.”
You shake your head. Your cheeks go pink, then red, then crimson.
But, then — you laugh. Like actually, honestly, laugh.
It’s such a monumentally fucking awkward thing to ask that the rest of the stuff — the heavy stuff — takes a backseat. The air between couch and chair lightens; loosens. Your hands slide off of your knees.
“Ew,” you tell him. You’re laughing, still. “Stop. Stop. We’re — adults. Jesus.”
He cringes. Holds up his hands in mock surrender.
And then he laughs, too, and you feel like maybe the worst part is over. You’ve weathered the storm and your ship is still standing. You’re still in one piece.
You think maybe — for the first time in weeks — things will be okay.
Eventually.
You both stop laughing, after a while. He sits back in his chair and rubs his face with his hand. Yawns, heavily, and then sighs.
“You, uh — you goin’ out?” he asks. It’s casual — or trying to be — but you know what he’s asking. Are you going back to him?
“No,” you tell him. “Not tonight. Thought I’d stay here.”
You pause. Nod toward the TV.
“Maybe watch a — shitty movie, or something. See what Hallmark has on.”
You see his eyes light up. The tentative twinkle. The way he tries not to look too eager.
“Well,” he says. “‘Y’missed the rest ‘a Christmas in July. August they got a new thing goin’. The Wedding Veil. Six movies. ‘Bout a — magic weddin’ veil.”
“Oh,” you say, snuggling back against the couch, “good. Sounds awful.”
“Hey, now.” He shrugs. He loves those shitty fucking movies. “Don’t knock ‘em.”
You smile. Shake your head.
“You want some company?” he asks. “Gets a little confusin’ around movie three. Multiple magic veils, ’n all that. Might need an expert t’explain.”
He looks hopeful. Slightly pitiful. So —
“Sure,” you say.
You lean over. Snatch a blanket up, off the edge of the couch. “You can make the popcorn.”
Three weeks later — September 1st — you start a brand-new job in downtown Austin.
Hours on LinkedIn, and Indeed, and fucking — Glassdoor — plus ten million copies of your resume circulated — and someone finally took the bait.
It’s your dream job. A tiny publishing house, smack-dab in the middle of downtown Austin. It’s just a starter role — freshly post-grad, nothing fancy — but still. Still.
It’s small, and indie, and eclectic as hell — hardwood floors and beanbag chairs and tinted, stained glass windows — but you love it. It’s yours.
Joel buys champagne to celebrate. You drink it the night before your very first day, side-by-side on the foot of his bed, and when he takes your glass and tips you back against the pillows he tells you that he loves you. He tells you that he’s proud. He tells you how much fuckin’ smarter than him he thinks you are, and you have to shut him up.
You spend your first day at work hungover. You’re not sure if it’s the champagne, or just the lingering taste of him.
You text him during your lunch break. You can’t help it.
You: so far so good
You: kinda miss you, though
You add a cheeky emoji he won’t understand. He texts back half a minute later — uncharacteristically fast — and you read his message in that tight-jawed gruff.
Joel: Thought you were supposed to be working.
You: i’m on a break. ever heard of one?
Joel: Smartass.
You: asshole
Joel: Get back to work.
You smile into your hand. Text back, under your desk.
You: yes, sir.
That’ll rile him up. You set your phone face-down and pretend to ignore it.
He doesn’t respond for a good ten minutes. Your break is almost up when your phone buzzes again.
It’s a picture. Of him. Your stomach flips and doesn’t settle.
He’s at work. On a site, somewhere. You can tell — he’s outside, and there’s a stack of plywood planks against a wall behind him. It’s just his lower half in the frame. His toolbelt on his waist, slung low across his jeans. The tops of his work boots. There’s a glove on the floor, where — you assume — he’s ripped it off of his hand. To take the picture, maybe.
His other hand is still gloved. You know, because it’s in the frame — cupping the outline of his very hard cock.
You swallow. Your heart dances at the base of your throat. You can guess what he smells like -- leather, sweat, sawdust. You can guess what his face looks like, even though it’s not in frame. You can guess the snarled, desperate look scrawled out across his mouth.
Thin ice, he writes under the picture.
You grin. Your face goes hot. You shift a little in your chair, against the pull between your legs.
You: nice belt
You turn your phone off before he can respond. Get the fuck back to work. And it’s your dream job, sure, but — you count the hours until five.
You spend the rest of that week — your very first week — commuting from your dad’s house.
Well. That’s not exactly true. You spend two days of that first week commuting from your dad’s house. The other three mornings you wake up in Joel’s bed, and drink Joel’s coffee, and get driven to work in Joel’s passenger seat.
It also just so happens that those three mornings — when you wake up in Joel’s shirt, and rinse off in Joel’s shower — are the same three mornings you’re almost, almost late to work.
Which is pure coincidence, of course. It has nothing to do with the way he wakes you: shoulders bunched under the sheets, head bent between your thighs. It has nothing to do with the way he holds you, after: warm and safe and comfortable.
And if your lunch breaks are five, ten minutes longer than they should be — it has nothing to do with the texts that he sends you. The short, clipped — good girl — when you tell him you crushed that meeting. The scruffy selfie — of his face, this time — that he finally sends, on a Friday, after a full week of work and a full week of begging.
It’s just coincidence. Or maybe just Joel.
Two weeks after your first day — September 15 — you sign the lease on your brand-new apartment.
Ten minutes from work. Fifteen from Joel’s.
Your dad helps you with the first month’s rent, and a down payment on some furniture. You tell him you’ll pay him back, once the paychecks start rolling. He tells you not to worry.
You’re good, now. You and your dad. Or — better, at least. Things were a little strained, in those few weeks before you moved out. The house felt crowded. Like it was — you, and your dad, and the constant, broad-shouldered specter of Joel Miller.
So you’re glad you move out when you do. It’s time. You think your dad’s a little relieved, too.
Plus — you’re psyched to have your own place. You’re excited. Almost as excited as Joel, when he steps over your brand-new threshold and sees just how much shit from Ikea needs building.
“Hey,” you tell him, when you greet him at the door. “My first visitor.”
You tilt up on your tiptoes to kiss him. He smiles into your mouth.
“Got no furniture,” he drawls, when he follows you inside. He looks around — Ikea boxes, half-built-and-then-abandoned bookshelves.
“Gimme a break,” you say. “I’ve been living here for like, twelve hours. And this shit is — way harder than it looks. I tried to put the bedframe together at two in the morning.”
His lips quirk.
“And?”
“I slept on the floor,” you grumble.
He grins.
“Good thing y’got an expert,” he purrs. He rakes a hand through his hair. Cocks his head to look at you. “What would ya do without me, I wonder?”
You scowl.
“I dunno,” you say. “Hire another hot contractor, probably.”
He shoots you a look. His hand snakes out to grab your arm and he reels you into his chest.
You protest weakly. Your laugh muffles in his faded t-shirt.
“There’s a ton of stuff,” you mumble, with your mouth pressed to his heart. “Are you actually sure you don’t mind?”
He huffs. His chin scrapes the top of your head.
“Seriously, if it’s too much — I can do it myself.”
“No y’cant,” he says, amusedly.
You roll your eyes. He releases you, finally, and you pull back reluctantly.
“Okay, well. I can always ask someone else.”
“No y’cant,” he repeats. That measured, silken drawl. He shakes his head.
“Will you shut up?” he drawls. He puts his hand to your cheek. Tucks a strand of runaway hair behind your ear.
“This is nothin’,” he says, with a nod to empty floors and moving boxes. “Nowhere I’d rather be.”
His hand stalls on your cheek. His thumb strokes an aimless pattern there.
Your face warms. A smile tugs at the edge of your mouth.
“Build the bed first,” you tell him, softly.
His brows quirk.
“Why?”
You shrug. Lean into his hand.
“Faster you build it, faster we can break it in.”
His eyes glitter. Brown, black. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“That a promise?”
“If you do a good job.”
He drops his hand. Rolls his shoulders. He looks cocky, you think. Smug.
“Always do a good job,” he says. “‘M a professional.”
“Oh, yeah?”
You toy with his shirt. Drop your hands to his belt. Your finger drips through a loop in his jeans.
You don’t even have to touch him, really. He’s that responsive. He’s that fucking — desperate, for you. He hisses softly through his teeth. His hips buck into your hand. His cock swells at the seam of his jeans.
You squeeze, gently. Just enough to make him groan.
Then you drop your hand, and take half a step back, and smile at his snarled scowl.
“Better get to work, then,” you say.
You hear him swear when you turn your back. Soft. Almost-silent.
“What was that?” you call.
“Nothin’,” he grumbles. And then, after a beat, “—said y’drive me fuckin’ crazy.”
“That’s the idea,” you chirp. You pause, on your way into the kitchen. Put a hand out on the doorframe. “Don’t forget the bed.”
He grumbles again. You grin.
And then you let him get to work.
He puts that bed together in a hurry.
You check on him every now and then. And by every now and then you mean, like — every five minutes, propped in the doorframe with a smirking little smile. He’s rolled his short-sleeve even higher. It’s kind of shamelessly slutty: the sweaty brow, and the work-sloughed hair, the corded muscle-under-tee-shirt look he’s sporting. You can’t help looking. And he can’t help noticing, after the third — or fourth — or maybe fifth time you stop by.
He turns. He’s on his knees, hammer in hand, and he’s got that worn toolbelt slung low across his waist. The same one from that fucking selfie, just a few weeks back.
He blinks at you, long and slow. Nods at the frosted cup in your hands.
“That for me?”
“Oh.” You look down at the cup. Then back up at him. You do have sort of a vague recollection of filling it up for him, somewhere between check-ins three and four.
“Yeah,” you say. “Sure.”
You walk it over to him. He sits back on his knees and lays the hammer down. Swipes his hands off on his jeans. When he takes the glass his fingers nudge yours.
You watch him down the whole glass in one go. When he’s done he sets it down, on your newly-built nightstand — and offers you a crooked smile.
“Y’know, ‘f you’re just gonna stand there—” He nods to the doorframe. You blush. “—y’could get down here. ’N help.”
You consider this.
“No, thanks,” you say, after a beat. “View’s better from here.”
He tries not to smile. It’s not very successful. And you should really let him work — the sooner you leave him alone, the sooner you don’t have to sleep on the floor — but you can’t help it. You cross the bedroom in a few short steps. Cup his face in your hands.
He looks up at you, eyes dark. His knees dig into the floor.
“Stand up,” you say.
He gets up. His jeans crinkle. His belt droops, tools clinking. His shirt is damp with sweat.
You’d been taller than him, just a second ago, when he’d gazed up at you from his knees. It’s easier to boss him around, like that. When you’ve got his chin between your hands. But now that he’s up he towers over you, black eyes gleaming, hands flexing at his sides.
Your pulse flickers. Heat pools between your legs.
“Kiss me,” you say. But your voice is softer, now. Thinner. It doesn’t sound like a command, so much as a plea.
His lips curve. He’s suddenly very — very — close to you.
“Ain’t finished,” he murmurs.
You look past him, at the bed. It looks more or less finished to you. There’s a frame. A headboard. A mattress. And — sure, a few screws still scattered on the ground, but —
“Yeah, you are,” you mumble.
You pull him closer. Put your fingers in his hair. He groans a little, when you tug at his roots and tip his mouth to yours.
“Fuck,” he growls. His breath paints your skin. Soft, smoky. He kisses you again — messier, more desperate, and his tongue swipes your lower lip. He licks into your mouth and you melt to his chest.
You rake your hands up his sides. Make fists in the fabric there. You yank at his shirt and the cotton rides up.
He breaks your kiss. Just for a second. Just to peel his shirt off over his head.
He throws it somewhere in the corner. It hooks the edge of an unopened box and crumples there.
Then he looks at you, smirking slightly, and you stare right back.
Toned chest. Tanned skin, shiny with sweat. The toolbelt on his waist makes his jeans slouch, exposing the band of black boxers.
If you put some suspenders on him — maybe oiled him up a little — he could probably star in one of those sexy fireman calendars. Full page spread. He’d be splashed across one of the sexy months, too. Like…June. Or October.
You blink. His mismatched smile gets wider.
“Go on,” he drawls.
He tips his chin over your shoulder. To the finished-but-not-quite-actually finished bed.
You stumble back until your legs hit mattress. Drop down with a breathless sort of sigh. There aren’t even any sheets on the bed. Nothing to grab, when he stands over you and nudges your knees apart with his.
He reaches for his belt. You lean forward to stop him.
“Wait,” you say. “Leave it.”
He pauses. His hand hovers over leather. He almost looks confused, but then his gaze mellows out. Something more smug takes its place. More amused.
“Really?” He hooks a thumb through the belt. His jeans droop lower. You can read the Calvin Klein scrawled in white across his boxers. “Y’like this, angel?”
You swallow. His jaw flickers.
“Y’do,” he drawls. He shakes his head. “Fuckin’ — filthy.”
You tug at the toolbelt. He lets you drag him closer, til the tops of his thighs bump the edge of the bed.
He drops his own hands from his belt. Holds them up, briefly, in an I surrender gesture. You win. The shirt is off, but the rest stays on. The leather toolbelt, the jeans, the work boots.
For now, at least.
He shifts focus to you. To your clothes, and the fact that you’re wearing entirely too many.
You haven’t exactly dressed up — you’ve been unpacking all day, in a pair of denim cutoffs and a plain white tee.
It doesn’t matter. The look he gives you is fucking — starving. Eyes black, lips parted. Shallow, hungry breaths.
He drags his hands up your thighs. Hooks a knuckle in your waistband.
“Up,” he says, gently.
You lift your hips for him. Arch your back up, off of the mattress. He works your shorts off, over your knees, and tosses them by his forgotten shirt. Your panties, too. He slides them down, past your ankles, and lets them dangle from his index finger.
Something — or someone — thumps above you. You both look up.
“Y’got neighbors,” he muses.
He closes his fist around your panties. You watch the fabric seep over his knuckles.
“So?” you whine. It sounds a lot like please just fuck me already.
“So,” he drawls, “better keep ya quiet.”
His smile spells trouble. His fingers flex around your panties.
“‘Less y’wanna make a real strong first impression.”
You’re not sure what, exactly, he has in mind, but the look he gives you makes your pulse race. You sink back into the mattress, propped up on your elbows, and watch him with a wide-eyed stare.
His gaze drops: your eyes to your mouth. He nods.
“Open,” he says.
Your stomach flutters. You open your mouth, tentative at first and then wider, when he unfurls his fist and shoves your own soaked panties into your mouth.
You whimper. Close your teeth around the fabric. They taste like you, and they taste like him: like the salt on his hands, stained into damp cotton.
You mumble his name. It comes out muffled; muted. You breathe through your nose and watch him through hooded eyes.
He wraps both hands around your calves and drags you closer. You lose your balance — your elbows go out, and your head thumps the mattress. You lie flat, legs spread, knees crooked over the edge of the bed.
You’re panting. So is he. You can hear it, in the quiet. You see his chest rise and fall when he sinks to his knees.
You lift your head off the mattress to look him in the eye.
“Yeah?” he asks, softly. He’s got both hands wrapped loose around your ankles. His face is eye-level with your twitching hips. “Okay?”
Yeah, you want to scream. Fucking — more than okay.
But you can’t say anything, thanks to the makeshift gag across your tongue. You can’t tell him how badly you want him.
So you just — nod, once, like — yes, fuck, yes — and drop your head back to the mattress. A muffled, mangled whine seeps under the gag.
“Good,” he rumbles. He sounds satisfied. His voice is low, silk-smooth. “Good girl.”
He bows his head, and you expect him to taste you. You expect his tongue, hot and slick and velvet-soft. You lift your hips; tip your chin to the ceiling. Whine, softly, when a minute passes and his mouth doesn’t land.
And then you hear him spit — not onto his hand, like that night in the cabin — but directly onto your cunt. Your skin prickles; snaps. The heat in your core bubbles over. You drive your hips up toward his mouth and swear into cotton.
He splays a hand across your thigh. Holds you down when your hips cant up. His other hand sneaks higher, playing with the mess he’s made. He rubs slick, soaked circles on your clit. Slides the tips of two fingers just barely — barely — into you.
Your back arches. You call him every fucking name under the sun and none of it translates. His stupid panty gag works infuriatingly well.
You resort to pleading, instead, which also doesn’t translate and which he also ignores. He takes his time. And when your pleas filter through — he goes even slower.
He crooks his fingers. Drags them through your folds, agonizingly slow, and lets his spit and your slick drip down his knuckles.
“Goddamn,” he marvels. “You’re fuckin’ — soaked.”
“Mmph,” you whine. It translates roughly to fuck you.
Your hips writhe. You leave creased, crescent marks in the mattress where your nails dig in.
His hand tightens on your thigh. Holds you firmly in place. He pushes two fingers inside you — his index, then his middle — and you make a choked, desperate sound.
He slides in easily. You’re more than ready for him. Your muscles flicker, hugging his fingers, dragging him deeper with a sweet, stinging squeeze.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. His thumb works circles on your clit. Always attentive, even with his breath pitched and his eyes half-lidded. “Want it bad, huh?”
“Mmmmmph,” you whimper. Longer. More plaintive. Something like — really, seriously, fuck you. For real.
He smiles. The edge of his lip turns up.
“Speak up,” he says. “Can’t hear ya.”
Your legs tense. Your stomach swirls, white-hot. You curse him out again, under the gag, and his smile goes lopsided.
“Hang on,” he says.
He leans forward. Tugs your panties out from between your teeth.
You gasp. Suck in a breath.
“You were sayin’?” he drawls.
He’s so smug. So cocky. Your stubborn, logical, independent brain says — fuck you.
Your mouth says —
“Fuck me.”
He grins. Stuffs the panties back into your mouth. Then he leans back on his haunches, between your thighs, and pries your legs apart with two broad hands.
“You’re impatient,” he drawls.
“Mm. Mmmph.”
His brows flick. He looks up at you, face framed between your thighs. The image makes your stomach clench.
“Gimme a minute,” he says, and he sounds like he’s bargaining — even though he’s in control, even though you can’t speak, with your panties stuffed between your teeth. He sounds like he’s asking. “Wanna taste you first.”
Your jaw screws tight. Heat floods your skin. You nod once — shallow, short.
Yes. Fuck — yes.
His smile digs deeper. His eyes go dark. His head bows, curls dripping — and his tongue darts out to taste you.
You yelp. Sharp, shrill. Your teeth grind into cotton. He’s still got two fingers buried deep inside you; crooked, soaked, tipped up against your g-spot — and now his tongue is on your clit. And it’s almost — fucking — too much. You have to pull your head up, off of the mattress, and tangle your hands in his hair.
His tongue slides lower. His stubble rakes the seam of your thigh. You yank at his roots, dragging out a groan, and he pulls his mouth away. His fingers flex against your core.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Y’taste good, baby.”
He nods at your mouth. At your panties shoved against your tongue.
“Yeah?” he drawls. “Ain’t that right, angel?”
It’s the first time you’ve ever really tasted yourself. Apart from on his fingers, or on his lips.
You look at him, wide-eyed. Nod, softly.
“Yeah,” he mumbles. He looks pleased. “Taste like fuckin’ heaven.”
His head dips, again. He licks a stripe up your clit and your eyes roll up, up, up — to the ceiling, to the lazy fan doing circles there. You let the heat in your core boil over, and when it starts to spill you call his name.
It’s still muffled. Still muted. But he feels you tighten, fast, around his knuckles. He sees the way your skin starts to shiver.
He lifts his mouth from your cunt. His lips are soaked, swollen.
“You wanna cum, baby?” His fingers slow, notched inside you. His breath dances up your clit.
“Yeah, y’do,” he murmurs. “Can feel ya.”
You whine. He smirks.
“You wanna talk?” he murmurs. “Wanna tell me how it feels?”
You whine again. Writhe against him. His name filters through the fabric as a long, stuttered whimper.
“Poor baby,” he says. “Look so pretty like this, though.”
Your legs tremble. You kick your feet out, lift your hips — anything to get his mouth back on you. Anything to get him to make you cum, please, right fucking now.
He slides his tongue inside you. Drags it back out when your nails rake his hair.
“’S alright,” he drawls. His eyes flick to meet yours. They look black. “You’re doin’ good, babygirl. You’re doin’ fuckin’ —”
Slips his tongue back inside you. Paints a rhythm with his fingers. Your head falls back and the ceiling fan starts to spin.
“—good,” he purrs. “Real good.”
He’s so vocal, right now. You remember when you couldn’t force a word out of him. Now you can’t shut him up, with his tongue wrapped up on you.
So much for the neighbors, you think, absently, when he finds a pace that makes you limp. He’s making enough noise for the both of you.
He hits a spot — that spot — deep inside you, with his tongue and with his fingers — and you shout into the cotton. Fist your fingers in his hair. His smile curves somewhere against you.
“Attagirl,” he says. “Let go.”
You yank at his hair. A last-ditch effort to ground yourself, maybe. And then you’re falling apart, begging him close, and your knuckles go white with your vision.
Fuck, you think. Holy fuck.
It comes out as a whine. Again. You think he gets the gist.
You’re beyond wrecked, when he tips forward on his knees. You don’t feel him reach — across your scrawled, splayed shape — and rip the cotton right out of your mouth.
In fact — you’re not even aware that your gag is gone, really, until you’re already pulling for a breath. Your jaw goes slack. Your whimper pitches. The taste of salt sweat isn’t staining your tongue.
“F—” You drag a big breath in, through your mouth. Then another. “Oh my — god.”
You try to sit up. The bed creaks underneath you. And not a — we’re fucking! — kind of creak. But, like — an ominous, something is broken — kind of creak. An oh no kind of creak.
You stay perfectly, immovably still. But it’s too little, too late. Something shifts. The bed frame pops. The mattress groans, then slides to the left.
You broke the bed. The bed Joel insisted wasn’t finished. The bed you insisted looked finished enough.
The headboard jerks. One of the screws screams loose.
Yep. Definitely broken.
Joel blinks. He’s still on his knees, still on the ground, forearms still perched on the edge of the bed.
“Shit,” he mumbles.
You laugh. The bed squeals.
He drags you off the bed before the whole thing crumbles. You half-fall, half-drop onto the floor beside him.
You land in a heap. He rolls you over, onto your back, and hooks a leg over your waist. Swings his chest over yours. Your shoulders sink into the carpet.
“I fuckin’—” he kisses your neck, your jaw, the side of your lips, “—told you—”
—your cheek. Your nose. Your mouth, finally.
“—it wasn’t finished.”
You look up at him. His nose bumps yours.
“It looked finished,” you say.
He groans. Rolls his eyes. When he dips to bite your neck you rut your hips into his.
“Really?” you whisper. “On the floor?”
There’s a wicked smile dog-earing his lip.
“Y’broke the bed,” he says. “So. ‘Less you’d rather wait t’fix it—
“No,” you tell him. “Floor’s good.”
“Mmhmm,” he agrees. “Floor’s good.”
So he fucks you on the floor, in your brand-new apartment, with your poor bed on life support two creaking feet away.
He doesn’t tug at the hem of your shirt, and you’re grateful. Your back is on the ground, digging into carpet. You can’t imagine the rug-burn, if he were to tear it off. Although at this point — you’re not sure you’d care.
He leaves an open-mouth kiss on the side of your throat, and the contact makes you shout. Fuck the neighbors. You’ll smooth it over later, with a — pound of sugar, or a cake, or whatever people bring over these days. You’ve never been much for first impressions anyway.
He grinds his hips down into yours. He’s still got his jeans on, and his toolbelt, and his boots are digging wells in the carpet. You whine a little — at the scrape of denim and the rasp of leather on your skin. Your nails scrabble on the floor. You’re tearing up tufts of fiber, scratching the hell out of your brand-new carpet, but — you don’t care.
You don’t care.
You drag your hands up to his waist. Pull at the belt there. Now you want it off.
“‘Bout time,” he drawls.
He leans back on his knees and leaves you pulling for breath. He unclasps the belt and throws it carelessly to the side. The tools skitter across the carpet. You watch a Philips screwdriver roll under the bed. You try to reach for it and he swats your hand away.
“Leave it,” he growls.
Then he undoes his jeans — just the button, and the zip — and falls back over you. You hook a finger in his waistband and shove them down past his hips. His boxers, too. Just enough to let his cock spring free.
You reach for him. Wrap a hand around his length. You squeeze at his base, drag your fist up his cock, and he groans. His hips stutter into your hand.
You swipe your thumb over his tip. Precum soaks your fingertip, slick and glossy, and his jaw goes tight. His eyes droop.
“Fuck,” he hisses. You drop your hand and he takes the lead; positions himself at your dripping entrance. The arm braced beside your head trembles slightly.
“You want it?” he murmurs, and his voice sounds broken, like it’s taking everything in him not to just — fuck you senseless. You wish he would.
“Yes,” you yelp. “Fuck. Joel. Pl—ease.”
“How bad?”
What the fuck, you want to scream. You writhe under him. Just please fuck m—
He slides into you. Just the tip. Your hips buck, begging him deeper.
He doesn’t move. Your core clenches around him. Your skin bursts into flame.
“Bad,” you pant, and it sounds like a plea. “More than — fuck — that.”
“All of you,” you beg him, when he still doesn’t move. “Joel, pl—fuck, please, I want a-all of you.”
He blinks. His eyes soften. He drags out of you, and your heart sinks — and then he’s flexing his hips, thrusting down into you, filling you up til your throat tangles.
“Good girl,” he mutters. His jeans scuff your thighs. His cock nudges your g-spot, harder than his fingers, and you whine. “’S all y’had to say.”
And then he kisses you, and your mind goes blank. Your legs fall wider and he fucks you harder, faster, curling his big hand in the carpet by your head. He’s got his teeth on your lip and his tongue in your mouth and he’s talking to you between kisses — little words, obscene things, begging you to let him hear it.
Eventually you’re not really kissing — it’s too much work, and you’re both too distracted, and you can’t think straight with him this deep inside you. It’s just — messy, desperate — and when he hits something new inside you he swallows up your strangled moan. You bite down on his lip so hard you taste metal.
“Fuck,” you gasp. There’s blood staining his lip. You bit him. “Fuck, sorry, I—”
He drives his hips down; fills you up. You whimper and throw your head back. So much for apologizing.
You’re not sure he even notices. If he does he doesn’t care. He bends his head back to your neck, nipping at the thin skin there, and mutters low against your throat —
“C’mon, baby. Lemme hear.”
“What about the n—ngh—neighbors?” you pant. Your head feels foggy. Your eyes are glassy. Your limbs feel heavy but the rest of you is light, floaty, weightless. Like it’s all wrapped up in him.
He pauses. Just long enough to punch out —
“Fuck ‘em,” in that low, serrated drawl.
“Fuck ‘em,” you agree, mindlessly.
You tip your head back, onto the carpet. He snaps his hips, and bites down on your neck, and it’s rough and dirty and — on the fucking floor — but it’s always, always gentle. In that way that only he can be.
He knows just how hard to bite, so he doesn’t draw blood the way that you did. He knows when to slow down, when your breathing starts to stumble. He knows how to talk you through it, when you fall apart — with soft, quiet praise and his lips on your jaw.
He lets go, when you beg him to. When you run nails down his spine and plead with him to follow. His hips jerk and he spills inside you, muscles twitching. He rolls over — so he doesn’t crush you — and lays panting on his back across the carpet.
You turn over, onto your side. Nuzzle into his shoulder. Then you sit up, and swing your leg over his chest, and this time it’s you climbing on top of him. You straddle his stomach and stare down at him, all messy hair and wild eyes and tired, sweat-slick skin.
You put a hand to his mouth. Run a tentative finger past his lip.
“I bit you,” you say.
He lifts a brow. The corner of his lip twitches. You feel it, against your hand.
“Yeah,” he says. “Should do it more often.”
Your eyes shoot to him. He’s really smiling now — crooked, gleaming. He catches your hand in his and kisses your fingertips.
You roll your eyes. Laugh a little, then a lot, when he rolls you back over and buries his nose in your neck. Your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders. Light, loose. You rake your nails through his hair and he smiles.
You stay like that for a long time. On the floor, on that carpet, just — touching. Just — together. The shadows on the carpet get longer, darker. The sun outside your window wanes.
“I guess,” you say, after a protracted silence, “technically, we did break the bed in.”
He’s sprawled out on his side, somewhere beside you. He turns his head to frown at you.
“Emphasis on broke,” you add.
He shakes his head. Laughs. He gives a heavy sigh and you watch his eyes sparkle.
“I’ll fix it,” he grumbles.
“Mm.”
You nuzzle closer, into him. Kiss his neck.
“I’ll order some food,” you say.
You eat on the floor, in the living room, with your backs to the couch. Chinese food. Takeout. There’s no table, yet, because Joel hasn’t built it.
He was supposed to build it. Right after the bed. He was also supposed to build the coffee table, and the bookshelves, and the television stand, and a laundry list of other things you can’t remember right now.
He told you he could do it in a day. He’s a professional.
But that was before you’d distracted him. That was before he’d fucked you into the floor, and spent the better part of the late afternoon fixing the bed you’d already broken.
So — yeah. You have no furniture, except for one half-finished, fixed, and then finished-for-real bed.
It’s good enough. You don’t mind eating on the floor in happy silence, with a candle burning and the TV on. He can build the rest tomorrow. It gives him a reason to spend the night.
Not that he needs one.
“You know you’re gonna have to stay the night,” you tell him, matter-of-fact, when Say Yes to the Dress goes to commercial break.
He tears his eyes from the screen. He’s got a beer in his hand and an egg roll two-thirds of the way to his mouth.
“Yeah?” He blinks. His lips twitch. “How’s that?”
“Technically, you’re responsible for breaking my bed,” you say.
“I fixed your damn bed.”
“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have broken in the first place if you hadn’t—” you make a vague, ambiguous gesture. He looks amused. “You know.”
“Oh, so you didn’t like that?”
“I didn’t say that,” you snap, nudging his knee. You stifle a smile. “I just said it was your fault.”
He hums. Sips his beer.
“So. You owe me. You can build the rest of the shit in the morning.”
He pretends to think this over. Munches on his egg roll.
“We can start with the table,” you say.
“Alright,” he says, finally. “I’ll help ya build your table.”
He smiles. Boyish; wicked.
“‘F ya help me break it.”
Say Yes to the Dress comes back on. You snatch his egg roll clean out of his hand and finish it off in one bite.
“Deal,” you tell him. You nod to the TV. “Now watch.”
Joel’s birthday rolls around almost two weeks later. September 26th. It’s a Friday, this year.
Which is great, because the second you get off work — 5 o’clock, on the nose — you’re peeling into the Party City parking lot. And you’re peeling out with way too many balloons, and party hats that’ll make him groan, and a big red bow for his very top-secret, very surprise birthday present.
Sarah texts you in the parking lot. You lean on the shopping cart and dig your phone out of your pocket.
Sarah: CODE BLUE is go
You smile. Shake your head.
You: you know you don’t have to use the code name when it’s just us
Sarah: but it’s fun
Sarah: top-secret mission
You roll your eyes. Laugh. Sarah texts again.
Sarah: i’ll bring him over at like 8?
You: yeah
You hesitate. Your fingers hover on the keys.
You: you’re sure he’ll like this?
She takes a while to respond. Your heart draws a lazy, nervous pattern in your chest.
Sarah: that is literally the dumbest question ever
Sarah: YES.
Sarah: plus he loves you, so.
Sarah: you could get him, like, a brick and he’d still love it
Sarah: actually he’d probably love a brick. that’s like. some old man contractor shit
Sarah: it’s not too late. you could return the surprise. and get him a brick
You: please shut up
Sarah: love you
You grin. You push the cart forward, in the general direction of your car, and you’re so busy texting back love you, too — you don’t see a woman step directly in your path.
She puts a hand on the front of your cart. You look up — yelp a startled, aborted apology — and pull it to a stop.
“Shit—” you stow your phone back in your pocket, “—sorry. Wasn’t paying attention.”
“Clearly,” she clips.
You blink back the sun. It’s hot, still — September in Texas might as well be July — and the heat is lifting off the pavement. You have to tip your sunglasses down over your nose to see this woman clearly.
Oh, you think, for fuck’s sake.
Alicia Simmons is standing in front of you, one hand on your shopping cart, faux-leather ankle boots planted on the pavement like a…nightmare mirage.
Your nose crinkles. You do your best impression of a smile.
“Alicia,” you say.
“Ms Simmons,” she corrects.
You blink. She lowers her angled, vulture-nose and inspects the contents of your cart. A bouquet of brown-and-silver balloons. Party hats with the little foam toppers. A stack of bright red solo cups.
“Having a party?” she asks.
“Uh.” You shift uncomfortably. “Yeah.”
You don’t like this woman. You don’t like the smug, botoxed swell of her cheeks, or her artificial twang — you’re pretty sure she’s from New Jersey — or her stick-straight, platinum-blonde hair, so bleached it’s almost white. You don’t like the way she sunk her claws into Joel on the Fourth of July, and again at that fucking movie night. But really you don’t like the way she looks at you, like you’re — expendable. Disposable. A very shaky rung on her very desperate ladder.
She doesn’t have a cart, but she’s clearly on her way out of the store. She’s lugging two bags of plastic champagne flutes close to her chest. 100 per bag, for $14.99. You can see the price tags, peeking out between her fingers. You wonder if she’s hosting, too — or if they’re all for her. You don’t ask.
“A birthday?” she probes. She hasn’t let go of your cart.
You take your sunglasses off. Fold them up.
“Yeah,” you say.
“Joel’s,” you add, when she doesn’t fucking move.
She takes a full step back. Her boots clackclack on the asphalt.
“Joel Miller?" she asks.
You squint. Nod.
“Joel’s birthday,” she repeats. She looks puzzled, like she can’t quite square it. “That’s funny. He didn’t mention.”
You bristle a little.
Why the fuck would he mention? you want to ask.
“Oh,” you say, instead. “Well.”
“I ran into him the other day,” she says, by way of explanation. “I was on a walk around the block. He just happened to be in his driveway.”
You’re met with a very vivid image of this woman lurking by her kitchen window, peeking through the blinds, waiting for Joel to emerge from his house.
“Okay,” you say, again. You nudge your cart forward. Move.
“He didn’t say anything about a birthday,” she says. “I just — figure he would have mentioned, if he was having a party.”
“Mm.” You drum your fingers on the cart. “Well, it’s — he’s pretty private, so —”
“But he invited you,” she says. It sounds accusatory. Mean.
“Not really,” you say. “I mean — it’s my party. For him.”
“Oh,” she says. There’s a pregnant pause. Heat beads on the seams of her snakeskin pants. “I see.”
“Yeah,” you say. You push the cart forward. More purposeful, this time. “So, actually, I have to go get ready for that—”
She puts a hand out to stop you. Like, physically stops you.
“He said he had a girlfriend,” she blurts.
You pause. Heat floods your face. Not from the sun, this time.
“Sorry?”
“A girlfriend,” she repeats. “I asked myself in, for a glass of wine. He wouldn’t let me in the door. Said he had a girlfriend.”
You’re silent. You know you should be annoyed, and you are, but —
You’ve just never heard Joel call you that, before. It’s not like you don’t know exactly what you are. It’s just — different, hearing the actual word. Even if it’s second-hand, from Alicia Simmons’s lips.
You stifle a smile. But then she’s talking again, and it fades as quickly as it comes.
“I just assumed he was blowing me off,” she says. “I didn’t know he meant—”
She scoffs. Makes a semi-disgusted gesture in your general direction.
You lift a brow.
“But — you’re so young,” she stammers. “And—”
You listen patiently. You can’t wait to hear this and. But she trails off, instead, and makes another confusingly rude gesture. Your jaw flickers.
“Unless—” she nods, like she’s convincing herself, “—did he mean you?”
She sounds hopeful. Like — maybe it’s not true. Maybe you can set her addled mind at ease.
“Well,” you say, “he certainly didn’t mean you.”
She settles into stunned silence.
You smile. Push the cart past her.
“Always a pleasure,” you tell her.
The party starts at eight. You decorate the whole apartment — tacky Happy Birthday banner on the wall, balloon bouquet by the couch. Party hats on a silver tray. Beer on ice in the kitchen sink. It’s not much, but it’s cute. It’s quaint. You want him to like it.
And he does, when he walks through your door with Sarah at his side. She hugs you first, well before he can reach you. She bowls over the threshold and tugs you into her chest.
“Is it here?” she whispers.
You grin into her neck.
“Bedroom,” you whisper back.
She squeals happily. She breaks your hug and bounds past you, into the kitchen, and you watch her pluck a White Claw from the sink. Joel frowns.
“I can see you,” he shouts.
“Then don’t look,” she shouts back.
He shakes his head. Smiles. His gaze drops, back to you, and his eyes rake your body. Your heels, your hair. The little black dress you wore just for him.
“Hey,” he says, softly.
“Hi.”
He bends his head. Catches your mouth in a light, happy kiss.
“Y’look beautiful,” he murmurs.
Your heart flips, the way it always does when he looks at you like that. You resist the urge to pull him back down into another — longer, slightly more desperate kiss. Sarah might be cool, but — still. She doesn’t need to turn around and see your tongue down her dad’s throat.
So —
“Thanks,” you say, instead. You sound soft. Shy. You smooth your dress down, and his eyes follow.
“’N this—” he gestures toward your apartment — now fully furnished — and the decorations you’ve hung. The balloons, the hats. The lopsided banner. “Y’didn’t have to—”
“Shut up,” you say. “Just say it looks good.”
He grins.
“Looks great,” he says, earnestly. He nods at your balloon bouquet.
“Brown balloons,” he says. “Nice touch.”
“Mm. Your favorite color. I think I’m, like, the first person ever to clear out Party City’s brown ballon stock.”
He laughs. The sound makes you smile.
“You know I ran into Alicia Simmons today,” you say.
He groans.
“She told me that Joel Miller told her that he had a girlfriend.”
“Mm,” he hums. He looks amused. “Did he?”
“Apparently.” Your lip twitches. “She must be pretty cool, your girlfriend. Really cool, even.”
“She’s somethin’,” he drawls.
You shoot him a look. His goofy grin is contagious. You lean in — to punch his arm, playfully, or tug him down into a kiss — and the door jumps behind his back. Someone knocks twice and then twice more.
“Hold that thought,” you say.
You walk around him. Pull open the door. The younger Miller brother greets you there, leaning up against the doorframe. He’s got a Carhartt jacket on and a scrawled, sloping smile. His hair is tucked behind his ears.
“Tommy,” you say.
His grin widens. White teeth and happy eyes. He looks softer than Joel: clean-shaven, friendlier — but the resemblance is there. In the heavy walk, in the Southern slope of his words.
“The famous hostess,” he drawls. “Thanks for the invite. Heard a lot about ya.”
“Oh, yeah?”
You look over at Joel. He’s staring at Tommy, like he can’t quite believe his little brother’s at the door. Like he can’t quite believe everyone’s here just for… him.
You look back at Tommy.
“Good things, hopefully.”
“Very good,” he says. He drops his voice, conspiratorially. “Ain’t never seen him like this,” he says. “Tried t’throw him a party, a few years back, ’n he nearly kicked my ass. You —” he nods, “—are somethin’ special.”
Your cheeks flush. You step aside to let him in and he approaches Joel with his arms outstretched.
“Birthday boy,” he crows. “Bring it in, big brother.”
Joel’s jaw flickers. But he lets himself be hugged, and you watch him plant an awkward slap on his brother’s back. He looks at you over Tommy’s shoulder.
Thank you, he mouths.
You nod. Your cheeks warm. He looks happy.
The next hour passes happily. You sneak away every so often to check on his present, tucked away in your bedroom. Your excuses for slipping away get more and more elaborate.
When you come back out the third or fourth time, Sarah’s hooked the TV up and wrestled two controllers out of the cabinet. She’s midway through a very contentious Mario Kart race with Tommy — Coconut Mall, judging by the music — and she’s winning by a landslide, if Tommy’s increasingly colorful language is any indication.
Joel’s watching amusedly from the couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table. He takes a sip of beer and smiles into the rim.
You settle onto the couch beside him. Nuzzle into his silk collar. You watch Sarah finish in first place.
“She’s good,” you say, absently.
“Mm,” Joel mumbles. You’re not sure he’s listening. His fingers are ghosting your leg, drawing aimless patterns up your thigh. His knuckles brush the hem of your dress.
The dress you’d picked out, put on — worn just for him.
Your skin pricks under his touch. If he’d just — slide his hand higher, higher — he’d see the panties you’ve worn just for him, too. Black. Lace. Almost soaked, now, just from his fingers on the crest of your thigh.
You tip your head into his shoulder. Toy with the collar on his black button-down.
“I love you,” he mutters. Just low enough for you to hear.
“You’re just drunk,” you tease.
His hand tightens on your leg.
“No,” he growls. “I love you.”
You look up at him. His eyes are dark.
“How much?” you whisper.
The look he gives you says enough.
A lot.
More than anything.
You swallow. Heat races up your neck.
“You dressed up,” you mumble. And he did — black silk button-down, black jeans. Boots with laces that don’t look like a Labrador chewed them. “For your birthday?”
He turns his head from the screen. Drops his voice.
“For you,” he says.
Fuck it. You’re about to drag him off to your bedroom — Tommy and Sarah are distracted enough — when someone else knocks at your door.
Sarah pauses the game. Tommy looks over his shoulder.
“You expectin’ someone else?” he asks. “Joel, y’ain’t got this many friends.”
Joel glowers at him. You get up, smoothing your crinkled dress, and your heart is fucking — pounding — because you know who’s at that door.
You undo the lock. Pull open the door. Your dad is standing on the threshold with a poorly-wrapped present in his hands.
“Hey,” you say, softly. “You came.”
Joel appears at your shoulder. You can feel him behind you. Your dad looks up — looks at him — and then drops his gaze.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “That okay?”
He’s addressing Joel. Not you. So you let Joel respond.
“‘Course,” Joel says, after a beat. He steps back, and so do you. “Come on in.”
The first few minutes with your dad are tense. Sarah hovers at your side like a German Shepherd, like she’s just — willing him to say some shit. At one point she takes your hand, squeezes it. You squeeze back.
She gives you a look. You good?
You nod. Yeah.
And you are. It’s — good. It’s fun. Tommy and Sarah are buffers, and your dad is on his best behavior. He’s polite. He asks Tommy about work and Sarah about school. He wishes Joel a happy birthday in a low, deferential tone.
“Glad ya came,” Joel tells him. He puts a hand on your dad’s arm and neither flinches.
Mario Kart starts back up. Your dad has a drink — for courage, he says, and Joel laughs — and then plays Sarah. She’s unbeatable, so he commiserates with Tommy. They form a loser’s circle in the kitchen by an open box of pizza.
Joel lopes off to join them. Sarah sidles up to you.
“Code Blue?” she asks, in a hushed stage whisper.
“I thought we nixed the code name thing,” you say.
“You nixed the code name thing,” she says. “I vetoed your veto. Code names are fun.”
You roll your eyes. You watch the men in the kitchen fight over the last slice of pepperoni.
“Okay,” you tell her. “Go wrangle them. I’ll go get his present.”
“Fuck yeah,” she hisses. She turns back when she’s almost to the kitchen.
“Don’t forget the bow,” she whispers.
You shoo her off. Slip away, into the bedroom. You can hear her issuing orders behind the door — put the pizza down. come into the living room. put your party hats on. no, it’s not negotiable. we’re doing birthday things. okay. good. lights off. dad, close your eyes. no, seriously, close them. i don’t care if you don’t want to. there you go.
The light flicks off under your bedroom door. Sarah leads a very off-key rendition of Happy Birthday.
That’s your cue. You wander over to the foot of your bed and collect a snoring, large-pawed, Bernese Mountain Dog puppy off the duvet. There’s a tiny buckle collar on his neck. A hanging silver bone-tag that reads BLUE.
“Alright, dude,” you tell him. He opens one, drooping eye. You hold him up to your face and he licks at your cheek. “Showtime.”
You swipe the red bow off your nightstand. Affix it haphazardly to his big, square head. Then you hoist him up, against your chest — he’s fucking heavy, already — and push open your door.
They’re halfway through Happy Birthday when you step out, dog in tow. Joel’s got his eyes closed. Sarah’s blindfolded him with a dish towel for good measure.
Everyone else turns to look at you, the second you step out. Sarah gasps — like, audibly gasps — and loses her place in the song. Tommy grins that lopsided grin. Your dad smiles — but he looks uncomfortable, you think. A little nervous.
You join in the song. Joel’s brows perk up over the blindfold, like he’s just now registered your presence. He sits up straighter on the couch.
You walk over to him. Blue wriggles in your arms when he sees Joel, like somehow in his tiny, play-doh puppy brain he’s recognized that that’s his person. His bow slips to the side. You push it back up.
The song winds down. You put Blue down gently, gently, in Joel’s lap.
There’s a very long, very quiet moment of silence. Blue’s freakishly giant paws dig into Joel’s jeans. And then his tail starts to wag — thumpthumpthump — and Joel’s hands come up to bury in his fur. His mouth parts. A shocked noise slips past his lips.
His hand shoots up. He undoes the dish-rag blindfold and it falls behind him to the couch.
He looks at Blue, tunneling into his lap. Then at you.
“You’re hard to shop for,” you say, quietly.
He blinks. His eyes are wide. You’ve never seen them look so — light.
“He’s—” he picks up the dog, holds him in two big hands, “—y’got him for me?”
“Well, yeah,” you say.
He stares at Blue. Blue stares back.
“You better like him,” you say. “There’s no gift receipt.”
He blinks again. And then he laughs — like, actually, genuinely laughs, deep and rumbling and happy — and brings the dog up to his heart.
“Goddamn it,” he mumbles. “He’s cute.”
“Language,” Sarah chides. She’s grinning. “He’s a baby.”
She joins him on the couch, and then Tommy does too — until all three Millers are thoroughly distracted. They pass Blue around like a very large, very heavy potato. His bow slips off, somewhere on the floor, and no one picks it up.
You slide over to your dad. He’s sitting back in a slouched chair.
“Okay?” you ask him.
“Yeah.” He nods toward the dog. “You did good,” he says. “He’ll love that thing.”
“Yeah,” you echo.
You think about that story Joel told you, a long time ago now, about that flea-ridden dog on the side of the road. How he found it, fed it, took it back to your house. How your dad kicked them both to the curb.
You wonder if he’s thinking about that, now. You wonder if he regrets it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, softly, like he can read your mind. “I shoulda said it. Weeks ago. But — I’m sorry.”
You nod.
“I know,” you tell him.
He settles back into his chair.
It’s a step, you think. It’s a start.
It takes a long, long time to get the party back on track. Introducing a puppy an hour into the festivities is a surefire way to derail the night.
But you do, eventually, manage to pull focus. Joel opens the rest of his presents on the floor, while Blue chomps away at discarded wrapping paper. He looks like a kid on Christmas. The whole scene makes you smile. He makes you smile.
Sarah gets him a set of brand-new, painted picks for his guitar. She did them herself, she explains, in her downtime between classes. She bends to kiss him on the cheek and he ruffles her hair. You hear his gruff thank you, kiddo when she melts into his hug.
Tommy gives him a bottle of whiskey, which is already open and only two-thirds full. Joel turns it over in his hands and looks up, nonplussed.
“Had t’try it,” Tommy explains. “Make sure it wasn’t — poisoned.”
Joel lifts a brow. Shakes his head. He stows the whiskey on the ground, beside the wrapping paper, and Blue gives it a hearty sniff. His nose crinkles.
Your dad forks over his present. It’s eerily quiet while Joel works at the wrapping, like everyone is half afraid a grenade might tumble out. Or a — bag of snakes, or a bomb.
But it’s just a book — a worn, wrinkled book — and Joel holds it to the light to read the title. Birds of America. There’s a pair of mallards painted on the cover.
“Found it in my office,” your dad says, gruffly. “Know ya — like that kinda thing.”
Joel looks up, surprised. So do you. So does Sarah.
“Yeah,” he says, after a minute. He sets the book down gently on the coffee table. Pulls Blue away when he snaps at the edge. “Thank you.”
Your dad mutters. Nods. You look at Sarah and she shrugs. Progress.
“What’s this?” Joel asks. He’s reaching for the coffee table, for the envelope there with his name scrawled in pen.
You realize he’s reaching for it too late. You’d meant to hide it away, give it to him sometime later, but — you forgot, in the Blue-fueled chaos. Left it sitting on the table, well within reach and well within view.
“No, don’t—” you reach for him, reach for it, but — he’s already tearing it open.
“It’s for later,” you say, lamely. “I was gonna…”
You trail off. Your throat feels sandy, dry. You watch him open up the card. Two small squares of plastic fall face-down to his lap.
He ignores them, for the time being. He’s too busy reading what you’ve written on the card.
You already know what it says. You wrote it this morning, bent over your desk.
Happy birthday.
And then, in smaller letters below that —
I love you.
He looks up. Swallows, thickly. And you blush — not because of the look on his face, right now — but because of what’s sitting in his lap. Those polaroids. The ones he took at the cabin, of you, straddling his chest with your hand stuffed down your panties.
He sees your gaze drop and his follows. He picks up the pictures, turns them over —
And goes beet fucking red. He coughs like he’s just swallowed glass.
“What?” Sarah asks. She’s on her feet, trying to peer over his shoulder. He stuffs the card — and the polaroid — to his chest. Tommy’s brows flick. Even your dad looks semi-curious.
But Sarah — always Sarah — is more perceptive than the two of them combined. She’s got a pretty good idea of exactly what’s gone down, even without a front-row seat to his card. There’s a devilish grin on her face when she turns to look at you.
Gross, she mouths.
Shut up, you mouth back.
Joel flips the card shut. Puts it facedown on the coffee table. He slides the polaroids into his pocket.
Then he stands, abruptly. Brushes his hands off on his jeans.
“Would you, uh — excuse me?” he asks.
Tommy shrugs. You turn to watch him go, from your seat on the floor, and when he stops by your shoulder your chest lights up. Your pulse thunders in your ears.
He lingers there, just a second. His finger brushes your skin.
And then he stalks off, toward the bathroom. You wait a beat and then get up, too.
“I need to — check on something,” you announce.
Tommy shrugs again. He’s already unscrewing Joel’s bottle of whiskey.
Sarah stifles a smile. She turns the TV back on and chucks your dad a controller. Blue barks, once, when the Mario Kart music sparks up. The tag on his collar clinks happily.
“Have fun,” she shouts.
You ignore her. But you’re grinning a little, on your way down the hall.
You wait til the noise in the living room kicks up to knock on the bathroom door. Just once. A short, shallow rap.
It swings open immediately. His hand snakes out and grabs ahold of your wrist.
“What—“
You yelp. Laugh, softly, when he drags you in and slams the door. You suck in a breath and watch him with wide eyes.
He pulls the pictures from his pocket.
“How come y’never showed me these?” he breathes.
“I don’t know,” you say. “Thought they’d make a good present.”
“I told you,” you murmur, when he surges closer, “you’re hard to shop for.”
He lays the pictures down on the edge of the sink. Takes your chin between his fingers and kisses you.
It’s not like the kiss when you met him at the door. It’s needy, hot. Snapping teeth and shallow breaths. You moan into his mouth and he lifts you.
Just like that. Like you weigh — nothing. His fingers crumple the sides of your dress.
He sets you down on the edge of the counter. Your legs hang, heels clicking on the cabinet.
You reach for his belt. Black leather, today. A step up from the grease-stained toolbelt you’re used to.
And he lets you, until you start to work yourself off the counter. He knows what you’re trying to do. Get down on your knees, on the tile, and pull his jeans down past his hips.
Like you did that one night, months ago, on the Fourth of July.
But he stops you, now. That’s not what he wants.
He strokes a hand up your knee, to the seam of your thigh. His knuckle brushes black lace and you gasp.
“Wait,” you pant. “I was gonna—”
“I know,” he murmurs. Your dress drips around his fingers. He ghosts his thumb over damp fabric and you rut into his touch. “Rather do this.”
Your resolve is slipping. His hand is moving higher, hooking under lace, and whatever he’s doing is suddenly sounding a hell of a lot better than you, on your knees, on a cold tile floor. This is — warm. His hands, his touch, his breath on your jaw.
“But it’s your — birthday,” you protest, weakly.
He moves your panties to the side. Bends, slowly, and hooks your heels over both his shoulders.
“Exactly,” he mumbles, and dips his head to taste you.
Fifteen minutes later, Joel steps out of the bathroom. Lips swollen, hair rumpled, silk shirt creased in the perfectly imperfect shape of your fist.
You follow him out two minutes after that. Might as well try and maintain some illusion that you haven’t been together.
He takes the polaroids on his way out. You watch him open up his wallet and slide them both into the back, somewhere just for him. Private, yeah, but not quite hidden.
He’s already rejoined the party, by the time you find the living room. You’re a little dazed. It takes you twice as long as it should to roam back down the hallway, and when you do reappear — dress wrinkled, makeup just — slightly smudged — Blue bounds to greet you. His big, floppy paws thwumpthwumpthwump on the hardwood.
You scratch at his ears. Let him lick at your leg. Sarah follows you in when you wander into the kitchen and dig a beer out of the melted ice.
“Boo.”
You start. Turn. She’s grinning at you.
“Jesus,” you mutter. “You scared me.”
“You’ve been gone a hot minute,” she says.
She clocks your messed-up clothes. The brand-new tangle in your hair.
“Ewww,” she whines. She makes an exaggerated ugh face.
Your cheeks flush. You grab a dishrag off the counter and bat playfully at her.
“You’re gonna give him a heart attack,” she says, dodging your blows. “Seriously. Remember that guy from Downton Abbey? Just, like, keeled over in bed? You have to chill. He’s like a hundred years old. That could happen to him. Any day.”
You stare at her, slack-jawed. The towel hangs at your side. A violent, smothered laugh bubbles up in your throat.
The door swings. Joel thuds into the kitchen. He sees you and Sarah by the drinks — the stifled laughs, the conspiratorial smiles — and his brows knit.
“Ladies,” he drawls.
Sarah dissolves into a fit of giggles. She pats his arm on the way out of the kitchen, still laughing, and he watches her go with a bemused look.
“Do I wanna know?” he asks, when the door swings shut.
“Something about Downton Abbey.”
He groans.
“In that case,” he nods, “y’can spare me.”
He looks adorably flustered right now, you think. Someone’s wrestled a party hat onto his head — probably Tommy — and it’s cocked haphazard on a clump of curls. He looks a little drunk, on the party and the drinks and on you. There’s black, white, brown dog hair scattered all across his button-down.
You tip to reach him. Drag him down for a kiss.
“Happy birthday,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” he says, gently. “It is.”
He pulls back. Looks at you.
“Cause ‘a you.”
He kisses you again.
And this time, now, when your hands come up to tangle in his hair — you try not to let go.
THE END ... for now
lakeside
13.2k / dbf!joel x f!reader
official dbf!joel playlist
warnings: 18+, minors dni. y'all know the deal by now. smut. heavy on the fluff. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel (he's back) (prepare the red carpet), fingering, toys, some, uhh, light ass play and some equally light...tying up? spanking, unprotected p in v, reader can get/is on her period, joel's face is still busted, ive exhausted myself y'all can let me know if i missed something
a/n: hello party people. i love you long time. y'all make my day every day. have fun, be safe, live laugh love dilfs, etc etc. inbox is always open for all of y'all 🤍 enjoy the cabin. it will be a two part affair.
this is part 11 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10
masterlist here. kofi here, if you wanna leave a tip :)
“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What?” He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth. “Nothin’,” he says. And then he kisses you.
Joel waits in his truck while you get your stuff. He keeps the engine going and his foot on the gas.
You like knowing he’s there, when you slip into your house. You like knowing he’s close.
You make a beeline for the stairs the second you’re inside. You don’t announce you’re home, the way you usually do, and you think with any luck your dad won’t hear you come and go.
You make it to your room without a chase. You drag a duffel from your closet and throw in some clothes — tee shirts, jeans, whatever’s closest — and whatever’s within reach on your bathroom sink. A toothbrush and toothpaste. An open, almost-empty box of tampons. Whatever. You figure Joel can stop for anything you miss.
Your phone is where you left it two nights ago, half-buried underneath your pillow. You fish it out and stuff it in your duffel. Your charger, too. Then you do a final, hurried sweep — and, fuck it, — you shove that little black vibrator in, too. The one tucked in the back of your nightstand. The one you haven’t touched since that night with Hayes.
You zip the bag. Sling it up over your shoulder. Your pulse paints a weird, nervous patter by your throat.
And then — because of course your luck has to run out, sooner or later — your dad’s voice lurches behind you. Hard and brittle. Almost broken.
“You’re home,” he says.
You freeze. Your hackles are up, like a cat in the corner. His shadow stains the carpet.
You turn, slowly. Your duffel slouches.
“I’m leaving,” you say. Soft. Even. But — firm, you think. You’re leaving. Get out of my way.
“Where’ve you been?” he asks. He sounds tired.
You don’t answer. You know he already knows.
He sighs. His head hangs.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. His hand comes up, fast, and slams the doorframe. “Fuck!”
You wince.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he says. You can’t tell if it’s an order or a plea. Both, maybe. “Just—put the bag down. Come downstairs. We’ll talk.”
“I don’t wanna talk.”
“Just — fuck!” He swears, again. Slaps the door, again. You wonder if he hit Joel like this. Open-palm. So hard he makes splinters. Or if it was worse — closed fist, knuckles scraping.
Your cheeks burn.
“I’m not talking right now,” you say. “You’re too—”
You don’t finish. He’s too everything. Too much.
You walk closer. He doesn’t step aside, so you squeeze past.
He doesn’t stop you, at least. Doesn’t touch you. But he follows you, when you sidestep him and take the stairs two at a time. You can hear him on your heels.
“Stop,” he says. He’s slower than you are on the stairs. You’re halfway out the door by the time he hits the bottom.
You don’t stop. You can hear Joel’s engine, purring out in the middle of the road, waiting for you when you step into the sun. Just like he promised.
You take your porch steps two at a time, too. When your shoes hit the street you’re almost sprinting. Not — away from your dad, so much as towards Joel.
He cracks his door when you get close. Trots around the truck to the passenger side.
You shrug your bag off your shoulder and he takes it from you. Puts it in the backseat. He snaps the passenger door open and nods.
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” you mumble. Your face is flushed.
He nods again. His finger flexes on the door. He’s looking past you now, up the street, where your dad is stomping down your driveway with an angry sort of gleam.
“Get in,” Joel says.
You get in. He shuts the door behind you. His window is cracked — you’re not sure they’re even capable of closing — so you can hear every snarled syllable when your dad crosses the street.
He’s shouting. It takes you a minute to work out that he’s yelling at Joel and not you.
“Are you fuckin’ serious?” he’s saying. Shouting.
He’s barefoot on the pavement. He’s lucky it’s still overcast, you think. Or else the soles of his feet would peel right off. You kind of wish they would right now.
Joel is quiet. Which is nothing new, really, but — still. You wish he’d fight back. He’s bigger than your dad. Taller. His voice rolls deeper. It’d take one word to set him back in his place.
But he’s quiet. Silent. You notice, though, that he doesn’t move. He stays wedged in front of the passenger-side door. Between the truck and your dad. Between you and your dad.
“Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?” your dad yells. “You asshole. Y’can’t take her.”
“Dad,” you say.
He ignores you. Joel stays put.
“Goddamn it,” your dad swears. “You didn’t learn your fuckin’ lesson already? Huh? Wanna go again?”
“Dad,” you say.
He ignores you. Again. He takes a jolting step forward, towards Joel and towards you. He shoves Joel with two flat palms and a snarl.
Joel stumbles. His back thumps the door. Heat swirls in your chest.
“Don’t fucking touch him,” you snap. Your hand curls on the handle. “You need to — you need to calm down.”
“I need to calm down?”
He’s talking to you now, at least. He sounds incredulous. He glares between you and Joel.
“Get outta the car,” he says. He’s not yelling. You wish he would.
“No.”
“Yes. We’re gonna talk about this now. Get out of the fuckin’ car.”
He reaches around Joel for the door handle. You shrink back.
And Joel — who didn’t fight back two nights ago, who’s peppered black and blue with bruises, who hasn’t moved a muscle this morning-
Joel puts a flexing, furious hand on your dad’s shoulder.
“Step back,” he growls.
There he is. That’s the Joel from the bar. That’s the Joel that beat the shit out of two grown men and sent them running.
And you get it, you think. You get it now. Your dad can threaten him all day long. Beat him black and blue. But the second he raises his voice at you—the second it’s you he’s reaching for — Joel is on guard. He’s pulling rank. He straightens up, drags himself to his full height, and you see the not-so-subtle way his shoulders bunch. Even banged and bruised, he looks imposing. More so than usual, maybe. Like a wounded animal: angrier, untethered.
“You got some fuckin’ nerve,” your dad says. But he’s stepped back, you notice. “She’s my kid.”
“‘N she doesn’t wanna talk,” Joel says. “So I’m tellin’ you to step—” his jaw flickers, “—the fuck back.”
Your dad stares. You swallow.
“Fuck you,” he says, finally. But he’s stepping back now, all the way. Crossing his arms.
Joel doesn’t say anything. No last word. No smug smile. He just walks quickly around the truck, to the driver’s side, and clips the door shut when he climbs in. He wraps a hand around the gear shift.
You stare straight ahead. Your hands are shaking.
“You okay?” he murmurs. Still gentle.
“Yeah,” you breathe. You can see your dad in your peripheral, standing in the middle of the road. Arms barred. Face tangled. “Just drive.”
Tommy’s cabin is in the middle of fucking nowhere. Which is — nice, actually. It’s nice to get away. From Austin. From everyone. From everything.
The nearest town is a place called Two Springs. Two Springs, Texas. It sounds more like a stop on the Disneyland express and less like an actual location, but — Two Springs. You stop there, on your way up. For groceries, gas — the essentials, according to Joel.
It turns out town is a gross exaggeration. Two Springs has exactly four buildings to its name: a gas station, a bar, a Mexican restaurant, and a sprawling, Western-style structure with a sign that says GENERAL ORE. You figure it might’ve said General Store once, like a century ago, when someone painted it for the first and last time.
It’s well-stocked, at least. They have Tylenol, Advil, Aleve — for your cramps and for Joel’s ten thousand cuts and bruises. They have a reusable ice pack Joel insists he doesn’t need. They have tampons, to supplement the grand total of three you’d managed to scavenge from your desperate sweep of your bathroom.
And they have food. Lots of food.
“Better stock up,” Joel tells you. He’s slouched against the shopping cart with a lazy sort of lean. His sleeves are sloughed up to his elbows. The further from Austin you’ve gotten, the more he’s seemed to relax. He almost looks content, right now.
“Hundred bucks says Tommy ain’t got a damn thing in the house,” he says. “So. Get whatever y’like.”
“Oh, god.” You fake a groan. “Does that mean you’re cooking?”
He shoots you a glare. You grin.
You split up. You case one aisle and he takes another. When you meet back up in the middle of produce, you’ve got your hands full of ice cream and he’s cradling a case of beer.
You point to the beer. Shake your head.
“You’re useless,” you say.
He frowns.
“You’re one t’talk,” he says, with a nod toward Ben and Jerry.
“This counts as food.” You study the label. “See? Chunks of real cookie dough.”
He stares at you. Blinks. Then he sighs; that beleaguered, bemused huff that hides his smile.
“Just put it in,” he grumbles.
You do manage to get some actual food. Eventually. And you talk him into that reusable ice pack, for the sprawling, angry bruise under his eye. Eventually.
A spindly, skeleton of a man checks you out up front. His eyes droop. He’s got a cowboy hat on — true Texan — and there’s a layer of dust on the brim. He’s probably been sitting here since they built the store.
He takes an eternity to scan your items. You can feel Joel getting antsy beside you.
“Passin’ through?” the man croaks.
He’s got a voice like a broken rattle. It startles you both.
Joel grunts.
The man nods. He mutters something you can’t hear. Then he points to you with a gangly finger.
“She’s a nice little thing,” he drawls.
Your nose scrunches. Fucking — gross.
Joel tenses beside you. His fist folds on the counter.
“Don’t,” he says. His voice is dangerously quiet. “I ain’t in the fuckin’ mood.”
The man blinks. Swallows. He drops his gaze and doesn’t look at you again.
He finishes ringing you up in silence. When he hands Joel the bag his fingers tremble.
“Y’all have a nice day,” he says.
Joel grunts.
You follow him back out to the truck. He puts the groceries in the backseat, by your duffel, and you don’t say anything to him, not yet, but you’re gnawing on your cheek when he climbs back in the driver’s seat.
You’ve had a shitty start to the day. A shitty last few days, to be honest. You don’t want Joel to be pissed. It’s just — he’s kind of hot, when he gets riled up. When he snaps at your dad. When he rolls his fist on the counter and snarls at strangers.
No. He’s not kind of hot. He drives you fucking crazy.
But you keep that to yourself. For now. At least ’til you get where you’re going. You figure you can wait at least a little while longer.
Tommy’s cabin is nice.
Not that you were expecting anything less. Joel built it, after all.
But — still. It’s nice. It’s really nice. It looks like something straight out of a Hallmark postcard: Adirondack chairs on a pinewood porch, stone chimney surrounded by trees. No neighbors — at least none you can see. A quiet lake with a pebbled shore.
The whole place smells like sunlight and pine needles and freshwater. It’s a far cry from Austin. From home.
He parks the truck out front, on a packed-down slope of dirt. There are tire treads baked into the soil — Tommy’s, you assume.
You’re halfway out of the truck before he puts it in park. You snatch your duffel from the back and stand in the shade, staring at the tops of trees, waiting restlessly for Joel to get his ass out of the car.
He lumbers out, eventually. You shift your bag to your other shoulder while he gathers up the groceries.
He leads the way up the slope, towards the cabin. You follow on his heels.
“This place is kinda cool,” you admit. “I haven’t been camping since I was, like, ten.”
“This ain’t campin’,” he says.
Typical. You roll your eyes. Pull a face behind his back that he — mercifully — doesn’t see.
“Uh-uh,” he drawls. “Don’t roll your eyes ’t me, pretty girl.”
You pause halfway up the steps. Your duffel hangs off of your shoulder.
“I didn’t roll my eyes at you.”
He hums amusedly. He digs a key out of his pocket and twists it in the lock.
The door gives with a push. The smell of pine drips down the porch.
“What, so, you can read my mind now?”
He hums again. He puts the key back in his pocket and leads the way inside.
“Somethin’ like that,” he says.
You roll your eyes again. He turns around this time, just past the threshold, and fixes you with a hooked half-smile.
“You ain’t that hard t’read, darlin’.”
You grumble something in response. His smile widens and yours does too, reluctantly, because seeing him happy is fucking infectious. It almost makes you forget about the bruise under his eye, and the slice across his nose that still looks too fresh.
“C’mon,” he says. He flicks a switch by the door and the whole place flickers — once, twice — then settles into soft light. “I’ll give ya the tour.”
He snatches up your hand and you lean into his arm, smothering your smile in his sleeve.
“Alright,” you tell him. “Better be good.”
It is good. You’re impressed. It’s a small place, cozy, but he’s thought of everything. Dark wood floors and a light leather couch and comfortable, colorful throws. Sketches on the walls: deer and ducks and charcoal antlers. Half-finished woodworks on a desk by the window. You wonder if they’re Joel’s, or Tommy’s, or both.
You don’t ask. Yet.
The bedroom is equally intimate. White sheets on the bed. Wooden headboard. Flannel blanket that screams Joel Miller. It makes you smile, when you drop your duffel down on it and unpack your things. You like it. This whole place feels like Joel.
You put your random, assorted toiletries in the bathroom, and — in a spur of the moment decision — you shove that black vibrator in the back of the nightstand, where you’re keeping your phone charger. Force of habit, you guess. You leave the rest of your clothes in your duffel and shuffle out to find Joel.
And — speaking of Joel — he was right to stock up, in that shitty not-quite-town of Two Springs, because the kitchen is empty. Well — almost empty, if you count the cobwebby bottle of clear liquor stashed beside the sink. You pick it up while Joel puts the groceries away. Turn it label-side out.
“What the hell is this?” you ask.
You hoist it up, towards Joel. Dust sloughs off the glass.
He straightens. Turns.
“Not a damn clue,” he says. “But I wouldn’t touch it ‘f I were you. Knowin’ Tommy, ’s probably radioactive.”
Your nose scrunches. You work the top off and put your nose to the rim — which is a huge mistake, because it smells like raw gasoline. You cough loudly and reseal the cap.
“What the fuck,” you sputter.
Joel laughs. Told ya so.
You shove the bottle back by the sink. Wipe the dust off on your jeans. Joel finishes arranging his beers and stands back to admire his handiwork.
“So-o,” you say. You push yourself off the counter and wander out of the kitchen. You drag a curious finger toward the wall of charcoal sketches, and you can feel Joel’s gaze follow. You can hear his sigh, too. Like he’s preparing himself.
“Tommy’s?” you ask, turning halfway to face him. “Or yours?”
He shifts a little. Shoves his thumb through a belt loop.
“Tommy’s,” he gruffs.
That checks out. You’ve seen Joel’s drawing skills on display, in that tiny coffee shop in San Antonio. He’s god awful. And these are at least…halfway decent. You wouldn’t say impressive, but —
“They’re good.” You flash a grin. “I mean. Better than yours, for sure.”
His brow lifts. The corner of his lip twitches.
“I’d watch it, ‘f I were you.”
“Oh, yeah? Or what?”
He almost smiles. You almost catch him.
“Or y’can sleep outside,” he drawls. “With the bears.”
“Mm.” You turn away from the drawings. You’re not so interested, now you know they’re not his. You wander back to him and smooth your hands along his collar. “Very scary. I’m terrified.”
His pulse picks up at your touch. You can feel it, when your hands drift lower and skim across his heart.
“Should be,” he murmurs.
You’re close to him, now. Really close. You have to tilt your chin to meet his gaze. His voice drips to your lips and settles there, white-hot.
You want to kiss him. You really do. It’s just — that fucking bruise on his cheek is glaring at you, mangled and purple and mean.
You swallow. Draw back, just a little. He looks disappointed.
“That bruise looks bad,” you murmur.
He starts to shake his head. You cut him off.
“C’mon,” you say. “We bought that ice pack. Let’s try it, at least.”
“You bought it.”
“Not true. I just put it in the cart. You paid.”
He frowns.
“Don’t say no,” you say.
“Didn’t say anythin’,” he gruffs. “But no.”
“Mm. Okay. Keep it up, you can sleep outside with the bears.”
He frowns again. Deeper, this time. You get the sense he’s forcing back a smile.
“Don’t be a baby,” you say. “We can’t waste it. It was, like, seventeen bucks. Total rip off.”
He grumbles. But he doesn’t grumble quite as much as he did two nights ago, when you first begged to take care of him. So he’s either getting used to someone caring about him — caring for him — or you’ve just worn him down.
You don’t mind either way. Whatever gets the job done.
“Go on,” you tell him. “Couch.”
He’s still grumbling. But he goes obediently to the couch and sits, sinking down onto the cushions with a heavy sort of sigh.
You sit beside him. He’s easier to reach like this, when you’re both sitting. You can perch yourself on the arm of the couch and tip his chin up, towards you. You can hold the pack to his face without reaching. Press it gently to the mangled colors on his cheek and his chin and his jaw.
He hisses softly, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything he sort of melts into your touch, the way he’d been too scared to do two nights ago.
He could do this himself. Easily. He tries to tell you as much, a couple times — and you bat him away. You like helping. You like feeling useful. And you like any excuse to be this close to him; to touch him, even though you don’t need much of an excuse at all.
He stops asking to do it himself, after a while. You get the sense he likes the help as much as you like giving it. His face gets heavier in your hands, and you realize he’s stopped propping himself up. He’s just — dead weight, in your palms. He trusts you.
You swallow. Your throat feels thick. So does the air, all of a sudden, like someone’s tossed a giant blanket on the inches between you. You move the ice pack half an inch to the right. Expose the corner of his mouth you’d had covered.
And then you try not to kiss him. Again.
The edge of his lip you’ve exposed quirks up, like he’s asking you to do it. Teasing you. Wondering just how long you’ll hold out.
You clear your throat.
“So the drawings are…Tommy’s,” you say, lamely.
He blinks. Hard. He’s been staring at you.
“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Says he comes up here t’hunt, but — I’ve never seen him shoot a deer. Only ever seen him draw ‘em.”
You smile. You pull the ice pack back and examine his face. It looks a little better. Less…angry. There’s a pink shine on his right cheek, where the ice has numbed his skin.
“I get it,” you say. “Miller boys. You’re both big softies.”
He glares at you. You can feel his jaw tense where you cup his face.
“Sorry,” you say, quickly. “I mean — very scary. So scary.”
He grunts. Mumbles something unintelligible. You could swear his almost-smile gets wider.
“And the little wooden things?” You tilt your head toward the far wall of the cabin. Toward that desk by the window, littered with half-finished carvings and pinewood peels. “Are those Tommy’s, too?”
He doesn’t answer. Which is fine, because you’ve gotten pretty good at reading his silence.
“Okay,” you say. “So. Not Tommy’s.”
There’s a pause. He sniffs. Then his gaze drops; off of the couch, onto a knot in the hardwood, and the cheek you haven’t been icing turns pink.
He’s blushing.
You stifle a grin. He’s cute when he’s flustered. And he’s even cuter when you consider that this must be how he spends his free time. Joel Miller, strong, silent, a little bit mean, carving little creatures out of wood.
You push off of the couch before he can protest. He grumbles weakly and sinks further into the cushions.
You walk over to the desk. Sunlight pours through the window, baking the glass, and the wood is lighter where it spills. You slough some wood chips aside with the flat of your hand. Most of the carvings are in some state of progress, like he can’t quite decide what to work on and what to finish — but you find one that seems pretty much done. You pick it up, gently. Turn it over in your hands. You hold it up to the window and swallow back your smile.
It’s a duck. A little wooden duck, with a flat bill and pine feathers. There’s a tiny J.M. carved into the side.
It’s good. Better than Tommy’s drawings. But, then — you might be biased.
When you turn back to Joel you’re grinning. The duck is hoisted in your hand.
“Shut up,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You’re ‘bout to.”
“It’s good.” You walk back over to him. Sit beside him on the couch. His little duck sits in the palm of your hand.
“It’s cute,” you say.
He glares at you. Then the duck.
“It ain’t cute,” he says.
“Yeah it is. It’s cute. It’s adorable. You carve ducks.”
“Don’t carve ducks,” he says, gruffly. “’S just the one. The feathers are — hard t’get right. ’S good practice.”
“Right. For more ducks.”
He looks at you. Shakes his head. He snatches the duck up out of your hand before you can close your fist.
He stands up, off of the couch. Walks his duck back to its place on that sunlit desk.
“Come on,” you protest. “Finder’s keepers.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Fine. Then you can make me one.”
He sets the duck down. Adjusts it, so its bill is basking in the sun. You’ve only ever seen him this gentle when he’s touching you. Well — you and his wooden duck.
He straightens up. Turns back to face you.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” he says.
“Yeah. So you’ve said.”
“Y’don’t want one of these,” he says, with a gesture toward the desk. Toward the dozens of half-finished creatures. You can make out the vague shape of a deer, in one block of wood. The hint of an antler. “They ain’t even good.”
He’s self-conscious. Joel Miller is self-conscious about his ducks. Or — duck. Singular.
“Yes they are,” you say. You stand up, too. Join him over by the desk. You loop your arms around his waist and rest your head on his back. “I mean, you’re not gonna be carving the David anytime soon—”
He twists around to glare at you. Your arms drop from his waist.
You laugh. You laugh until he’s smiling, too. You laugh until he tugs you into his chest, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and tilts his bruised face down to yours.
“You made them,” you say, softly. “‘Course I love them.”
You mean that. You’d love anything he’s scrawled his initials into.
He’s quiet, for a second. His thumb stills on the ridge of your cheek.
“Fuck,” he mumbles.
“What?”
He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth.
“Nothin’,” he says.
And then he kisses you.
You’ve been waiting for this all day. There’s been a borderline-painful tug between your legs since you left that shitty almost-town of Two Springs. So you melt into him, when he bends to kiss you, and you’re almost — almost — too preoccupied to feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
You ignore it. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like summer sun and coffee, and his lips are still cool from the edge of that ice pack.
You fist your hands in his flannel. Bite at his bottom lip and swallow his groan. His hands go to your waist and he’s turning you — turning you both, so that your back nudges the desk — and you get the vague sense he’s lifting you up. He swipes stray wood chips aside, clearing space for you, and puts you down with a gentle sigh.
You mumble something into his mouth. You’re not sure what. Your legs are hooked around the backs of his, pulling him close, and when he bends to kiss your neck you tilt your head for him. His nose grazes the side of your throat.
And then your phone buzzes. Again.
He hears it, this time. He pulls back with a bemused smile. His eyes are heavy.
“Wanna get that?”
“Not particularly,” you mutter. But you dig your phone out of your pocket anyway, just to turn it off, and your dad’s contact lights up the screen.
You groan. Your heart sinks to your feet.
“Shit.”
Joel is quiet. He’s still desperately close. There’s a piece of his hair that’s out of place, thanks to your wandering hands. It’s curled halfway down his forehead.
“It’s my dad,” you say, blandly. You flip the screen to show him.
“Figures.”
You swipe the notification open. Your phone is ridiculously slow in opening, which probably has something to do with the fact it’s on 2% battery. It’s kind of impressive it’s even still functioning, considering you can’t remember the last time you plugged it in.
Your dad’s messages come up. Slowly. You read them with your feet dangling off the desk.
“What’s he say?” Joel asks, quietly.
You shrug.
“Wants to know where we are,” you say. “I turned my Find my Friends off, so.”
You don’t elaborate. You doubt Joel even knows what the hell that is.
“I should tell him something,” you say. “So he knows I’m not dead, at least.”
Joel nods.
“Sure,” he says.
You swallow. Look back down at your phone. The screen blinks with a battery warning.
“Fuck,” you mutter. “I need my charger. Can you—?”
“Yeah,” he says, quickly. “‘Course. Where ’s it?”
“Uh—nightstand. In the bedroom. The one on the right.”
He nods. He extricates himself from between your legs, a little reluctant, and you watch him disappear down the hallway.
You look back down at your phone. At your dad’s messages. Your last text to him is still plastered on the screen — something inane from San Antonio, when everything was still good. Normal. It makes your heart hurt a little.
You text him back quickly. Before your phone can die.
You: i’m fine. need a few days. we can talk when i'm home.
The service up here is hanging on by a thread. It takes a minute to deliver, but when it does his grey bubble pops up almost immediately. It takes another minute for his response to come through. And it’s not really what you’re expecting, when it does. It’s not angry. It’s just — short. It makes your throat swell a little.
Dad: OK. Be safe.
You lay your phone down on the desk. Face-down. It’s progress, you think. It’s something.
And then you wonder where the hell Joel is, because this place is not that big and he’s been gone way too long for a phone-charger scavenger hunt. You told him exactly where it is. So unless he’s blind—
“Joel,” you yell. “The nightstand on the right. It can’t be that hard to—”
He pokes his head around the corner. Steps out, slowly, until the sun washes his skin.
“…find,” you finish, lamely.
He moves closer to you, and it’s clear there’s something in his hand. Judging by the look on his face — narrowed gaze, crooked smile — and the way his fist is folded, tight, it’s not your charger. But there was only one other thing in that nightstand, which means—
He’s just a few feet from you, now. You think about sliding off of the desk, and darting under his arm — but he’s stepping in between your legs, again, and you let him cage you in.
You watch the gentle rise-fall of his chest under flannel. The way his smile drags wider when he unspools his fingers and shows you his palm.
“What’s this?” he drawls.
You know what he’s holding. You don’t have to look. You’re blushing before his fist can unfurl.
Your little black vibrator. The one you’d taken from your room, on an impulse, in a mad-dash sweep of your things. The one you’d squirreled away in the nightstand on the right, next to your fucking charger.
“Uh,” you say.
His eyes sparkle. He looks annoyingly smug. You figure he’s probably loving the look on your face right now, after you subjected him to torture by wooden-duck. This is payback, you think.
“Go on,” he urges.
He drags a rough thumb over the black shell, and your stomach clenches. A shiver crawls up your throat. Whatever’s been stirring in your core since the car ride up here sparks suddenly to life.
Something about that thing in his hand. How small it is. How smug he looks.
“It’s nothing,” you say, softly.
“Yeah?” He cocks his head. That one stray curl flips against his forehead. He pushes his thumb down, gently, and the vibrator buzzes to life in his palm.
You stare at it. So does he. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach.
“Don’t look like nothin’,” he murmurs.
He flicks it off. You swallow back a sound.
You lean in. Snatch it up, out of his hand. Your fingers close around the shell, and you ignore the fact they’re trembling.
He lets you take it. He looks amused, if anything. He likes watching you squirm.
“I just thought, maybe—” your cheeks are burning again, “—you wouldn’t want to, like — you know.”
He looks at you, nonplussed. You blink.
“Since I’m on my period?” you offer, weakly. “I didn’t know if you’d want to do—like, do anything, so—I just brought it in…case.”
He’s silent. Even more so than usual, if that’s possible.
“It’s totally fine, by the way,” you say, hurriedly. You’re pretty sure you’re just talking to talk, now, but — you can’t stop. “If you don’t want to. I wasn’t trying to—”
He tilts his head a little. Enough to show he’s listening. Enough to shut you up.
And then he puts his palm out. Face-up, in the small space between you both.
You know what he wants. He doesn’t have to ask. Your fingers flex around the toy, a little hesitant, but you give it up. You give it back.
His hand folds around the shell. He slides it into his jeans, into his pocket, and you watch it disappear.
The tension is too thick. Sticky. It’s hard to draw a breath. Outside the sun slips toward the water.
The light slants a little darker through the window. Almost blue. Almost dusk.
“Bedroom,” he says, and his voice is silk. Like smooth whiskey and the slipping sun. “Five minutes.”
And then he turns, and goes, and you count back from three hundred.
You wait five minutes, like he asked.
It feels excruciatingly long. But, then — you’re used to this, by now. The minutes with him go too quickly and the ones without him never end. You can’t ever seem to get it just right.
But the time does pass, eventually. You make it pass. You push yourself off the desk and wander into the bathroom. You take your clothes off — everything, except black underwear — and you take your tampon out, and you run a brush through your hair. Then you walk back to the living room, where his duffel bag is still sitting by the front door — and you fish one of his flannels from the top. It’s red and brown and smells like bourbon and it’s way too fucking big. But you button it up anyway, over your bare chest, and leave the top two undone.
It’s huge on you. The sleeves drip over your fingers. The hem drops just above your knees.
You like it. It’s warm. It feels like him.
And then your five minutes are up, just like that, and you follow his shadow to the bedroom.
You’re nervous, when you open the door. But you’ve gotten used to that, too. The constant swarm in your stomach when he calls you by name. The flush in your face right before you see his.
You take a quiet step inside. Let the door click shut behind you.
“Hi,” you say, softly.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed: Still dressed, in his belt and his boots and his jeans and his flannel. The sleeves are cuffed at his forearms, exposing tanned skin and corded muscle. His runaway curl is smoothed back into place.
There’s a towel spread across the sheets. One of the big, fluffy black ones you’d seen hanging by the shower. The edge hangs slightly off the bed.
He doesn’t say hi back. But he does give you a look — like, a look — that makes your throat run dry. His eyes roam your body: up your legs, over his flannel, over the bit of exposed skin where you’ve neglected the top buttons — and you watch them go dark.
“C’mere,” he says.
You take one step forward. Then another. There’s something intensely commanding about the way he sounds right now, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact he’s almost completely, totally silent, or the way he doesn’t move a muscle while he watches you approach. He only really moves once, to push his own sleeve higher. You watch his wrist flex with the motion.
You stop at the edge of the bed. He tilts his chin to look at you.
“Lie down,” he says.
You get the sense that this is not about to be a repeat of two nights prior, when you issued all the orders. You’re pretty sure that was a one-time thing. Or at least — a once-in-a-blue-moon thing, if the look on his face and the cut in his voice are any indication.
He’s back to his old self. More commanding, if that’s even possible, like he’s making up for lost time. His eyes are black.
“Don’t like repeatin’ myself,” he murmurs.
Your breath hitches. The tug between your legs is borderline painful. You have to bite back a whimper when you sink down onto the bed, on top of the sheets and on top of the towel.
He doesn’t move, still, when you lie down. He stays sitting at the foot of the bed. But he does turn slightly, to look at you, and his stare is so sharp you drop your own gaze.
He doesn’t do anything, so you pick up his slack. Or…try to. You bring shaky fingers to your flannel — his flannel — and start to pull at the buttons.
He shakes his head. Your fingers still.
“Don’t,” he says, gently.
So you don’t. You drop your hands. Let them fall useless to your sides.
And then he moves. Finally. He undoes his belt with deft fingers and slips it through his jeans with a soft, leathery hiss. It’s the only sound in the room. It makes your skin prick and your stomach clench.
He gets up, off of the bed, and you tilt your neck to follow him. He walks up to you, where your head is propped against the pillows, and bends to pick up your hands.
He’s gentle, while he does all this. Gentle and quiet and not at all the rough, teasing, domineering type you’ve gotten used to. But there’s something about him, still, that spells you into silence. Something that makes you listen, and makes your wrists go limp when he takes them both in one hand.
He pulls your hands up over your head. Your pulse beats a double-rhythm in his palm. He holds them to the headboard, to the second wooden slat of four, and ties them in place with his belt.
And you let him. You let him wrap the leather around your hands and the headboard, let him cinch it tight, let the metal buckle bite into your wrists. You don’t say a damn word and neither does he.
Not until he sits back down beside you, on the edge of the bed, and digs that black vibrator back out of his pocket.
Your breath picks up. Your legs pull. You flinch a little, tugging at his belt, but it doesn’t give. If anything the leather cinches tighter.
“What’re you…?”
He puts a broad hand on your thigh, inches above your knee. Heat flushes underneath his touch. The hem of your flannel bunches around his fingers.
He looks up at you.
“Said you weren’t sure ‘f I wanted it,” he says.
He flicks the vibrator on. It hums to life in his palm.
“Stupid fuckin’ question,” he murmurs. He drags his hand up the seam of your thigh, until his thumb grazes cotton. Your hips jerk a little.
He holds you in place with that hand. Puts the toy to your clit with the other.
“Makin’ sure y’never ask again,” he growls.
And then you really do buck your hips; pulling at his makeshift restraints, whining through your teeth while he teases you through cotton.
“Fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—”
“Shh,” he mumbles, half to himself. He moves the vibrator half an inch lower, clicks the setting higher, and fire shoots through your core. Your wrists wrench at the headboard. The wood doesn’t give. Neither does his belt. But you’ll have a bruise on both hands, you’re pretty sure, where the buckle gives a warning bite.
“Y’move too much,” he murmurs.
“S-sorry,” you pant, and you’re not really sure what you’re apologizing for, but you’re kind of delirious and you’ll say whatever he wants if he just — doesn’t stop. The pressure he’s putting on your clit is fucking — it’s ten times better than any time you’ve used this thing on yourself. You’re not sure if it’s just him, or if he’s got some kind of magic technique, or what, but —
“S’okay, baby,” he says, in that gentle, slopey drawl. “’S why we used the belt.”
Your legs are trembling, and you’re not really sure if it’s the toy or his voice or the words themselves, dripping to your skin like honey. You try to pull them together, against the ache he won’t fill, and his free hand tightens on your thigh.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. He sounds amused. His thumb strokes at the seam of your thigh. “Tie the rest ‘a you down, too, ‘f you don’t quit movin’.”
You whimper — something pitiful, pathetic — but you stop moving. Part of you wants to push him: rut your hips, and writhe against his belt, just to see if he’ll make good on his promise. Part of you wants him to.
But this is enough, for now. This is almost too much. He’s got your eyes rolling back, and he’s keeping you still with that big, broad palm above your knee. He flicks the setting higher, higher, highest — and you shout his name. You pitch forward, panting, and the belt snaps against your skin. It might hurt, if you weren’t so preoccupied.
“Fuck,” you plead, “Joel, p—fuck—”
“Too much?” he asks, gently.
You shake your head. Your hair is in your face, in your eyes, and you can’t shove it away. Your thigh flinches underneath his hand.
“No,” you punch out. “N—fuck, please don’t st—op.”
You’re close. He can tell, probably before you can. It never takes you long with the vibrator — that’s why you bought it — but Joel plus toy is something else entirely. It’s a hell of a lot different than when you use it yourself. You never push it past the first few settings. You’ve got an easy, relaxed routine, under your covers, in the comfort of your upstairs bedroom, or your dorm room, or wherever. It’s lazy. Languid. Sometimes there’s a video, to help things along. More often than not you just use your imagination.
And you always — always — think of Joel.
So having him here — actually here, flipping your lazy routine on its head, working the toy against your clit with the kind of practical skill that comes from a lifetime of using your hands —
It’s a whole lot better than your imagination. And you try to tell him that, or something like it, but your head is foggy and your vision is blurred and his knuckles are grazing the soaked-black fabric of your panties while he guides the toy along.
So you settle for his name, instead. It comes out broken on your tongue.
“S’good, baby,” he coaxes. “Good girl.”
You cum hard, then, with his name still on your lips and a slew of fractured curses behind that. His free hand lets up on your thigh. It’s still there, still warm and rough and comforting, but he’s not applying any pressure. He doesn’t have to keep you still.
He clicks the vibrator off. Moves it back, gently. The guys you’re used to would keep going, once they got a result — struck gold once, why stop digging? — but Joel knows when to stop, when to pull back, when to let you catch your breath. He knows how to read your voice, and your body, and the words that get tangled on their way up your throat.
He leans back while your breaths steady. You see his shape in your peripheral, putting the toy down gently on the nightstand, and then his hand is on your face and he’s pushing your hair back, away from your eyes and your mouth and your cheeks.
Even that touch makes you shiver. You figure you’re probably just fucked, when it comes to Joel Miller.
You pull up a little on the restraints. You want to kiss him. Or — you want him to kiss you, since there’s not much you can do.
He doesn’t give you what you want. He pulls back, and moves back to his familiar spot beside your legs. He drags an aimless hand up your calf, your knee, your thigh.
You suck in a breath. Push it out through your teeth.
He knows what you want. He picks up on the patterns in your breath; the way your panting turns to pleading.
“Can you —fuck—” you pull against his belt, “—just—fucking—untie me, please—”
His fingers drift up your thigh, ghosting cotton, and then — they drop. His touch trickles back to your calf. And then he starts again, even slower, and it’s softer than the toy, and gentler, and lighter, but it’s driving you just as crazy. Maybe more.
He takes his time, like he’s pretending to think. His touch skates higher.
“No,” he says, after a long pause. “Don’t think so.”
You make a long, frustrated sound. Drop your head back to the pillow. Your wrists go limp against his belt.
His thumb strokes at the edge of your panties. You gasp.
“Make ya a deal,” he drawls. “Gimme one more — ’n we’ll see ‘bout the belt.”
“We’ll see about the belt?”
He shrugs. It takes everything in you not to buck your hips into his thumb.
“Best I can do,” he says. “Take it or leave it.”
You stare at him. Then your head flops against the pillow, and you sigh.
“Fine.”
He smiles. You can feel it.
“Kinda like ya like this,” he says. “Ain’t so stubborn.”
He swipes past your swollen clit. You yelp.
“Fuck you,” you pant.
He hooks a finger through your waistband. Pulls your underwear down, down your thighs and over your knees and off around your ankles. Then he holds them, wrapped around his index finger, and tilts his head.
“We’ll do somethin’ ‘bout that mouth, next time,” he says.
He tosses your panties to the floor. Pushes his slipping sleeves back to his forearms. You roll your eyes, but you know he sees the blush that stains your cheeks.
His brow lifts.
“You’d like that, huh?” He smiles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.”
You mumble something. It sounds like a whimper. But it must be good enough for him, because he takes pity on you.
“What d’you want, baby?” he asks, softly. His gaze drifts to the nightstand. “Up t’you.”
You know what he’s asking — and with most guys you’d say yes, please, use the fucking vibrator, I thought you’d never ask — because its success rate is exponentially higher than most college boys’s clumsy fingers.
But this isn’t a college boy. This isn’t most guys. This is Joel, and you want Joel. Just Joel.
“No,” you tell him. “Just — you.”
He doesn’t move, so you add, a little awkwardly —
“—please.”
He blinks. Then he snaps back, like he’s just — recalibrating. He’s got the same look on his face as he did half an hour ago, when you told him you loved his little wood duck.
“Is that…okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Fuck. Yeah, ‘course it’s okay. Just thought—” he’s looking at the nightstand again, with a curious kind of look on his face, “—thought y’might like that better.”
That’s stupid, you think. It’s a stupid fucking question, even though with anyone else it would be true.
“No,” you say, quietly, and you’re blushing, still, but for a different reason. “I like you better.”
He swallows. His jaw flexes.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothin’,” he says, again. And then — softly, “—just don’t know what t’do with you.”
He looks at you. His fingers are still splayed at the inside of your thigh, half an inch from where you want him most. You stare at them; at his hand sprawled on your skin, and he follows your gaze.
“I know where you can start,” you mumble.
And then he smiles again — that crooked, happy, satisfied smile — and his hand slides higher.
“Hold still this time,” he says, in that honeyed drawl, “or the belt stays.”
It’s not much of a threat. You like the way the leather hugs your wrists. You like that it belongs to him. You like that you do, too.
But you play along. You nod. And when he slips two fingers inside you you try your hardest not to squirm.
You don’t think you’re that successful. But he’s nice about it, or he’s distracted, because he doesn’t say another word. He lets you thrash against his belt, and writhe into his hand, and shout his name when he crooks his fingers and pumps his wrist and hits something inside you that that fucking toy can’t ever reach.
And — if it’s even possible — you cum faster on his fingers than you did with the vibrator.
He talks you through it. Murmured words and quiet praise. You tell him you’re close, again, and he tells you he’s got you, good girl, y’look so beautiful like this.
It’s the last one that sends you over the edge, you think. The way he calls you beautiful, in that molasses drawl, quiet and reverential and a little bit awestruck when you come apart in his hands.
And then he’s untying you; unclasping the buckle, releasing you from the headboard, and you’re undressing him before you can rub at your wrists. You can do that later, in the dark. You can ice his face and then your hands and then his face, again.
He kicks his boots off. His jeans are easy to get off, without his belt in the way, and he helps you with his shirt when your fingers shake. He leaves yours on, though. He stops you, when you go to take it off for the second time tonight.
“Leave it,” he says, and his voice is so dark, so deep, that it stops you in your tracks. “Like you like this.”
By this he means — in his clothes. In his scent. Wrapped up in him, in every way. He likes the way his shirts are too big, and he likes the way the smell of pine and coffee linger on your skin. You’d say he likes showing off that you’re his, but — there’s no one around. He just likes to see it for himself.
Which you knew, already. It’s why you pull his shirts out of his duffel, whenever you get the chance. It’s why you’re swimming in his flannel now.
So you nod, shyly. You keep his shirt on, and when he leans forward, and cups your jaw in his hand, it feels like he’s everywhere. On your skin and in the air and on your lips, when he kisses you.
You fall back against the pillows. He climbs over you, on top of you, and his knees dig into the towel. And this is the part, now, where you might start getting self-conscious — about the fact you’re on your period, and he’s gone to all this trouble, even though it’s really no trouble at all, about the fact you might make a mess, about ten thousand other things that couldn’t matter less.
But you don’t think about that. You think about Joel. And when your mind slips, into that fuzzy, peaceful space, you think about the way he feels, and the way he tastes, and you spell that you love him in drifting fingers down his back.
You have nothing but time, so he takes his. He drags his teeth up your neck and smoothes the marks with his tongue. He kisses your collar, where the edge of his shirt meets the dip in your skin, and his scruff leaves gentle scrapes. You put your hands in his hair, in his roots, and he lets you guide him.
And then — finally, finally, he draws away from you, and pulls back on his haunches to take off his boxers.
You watch him, while he does. You watch him toss them onto the floor and then fold back over you, chest to chest. His cock nudges at your entrance and you spread your legs, lifting your hips for him — but he doesn’t push into you. Even though it would be easy; even though he’s achingly hard and you’re soaked for him and you’re practically begging him, please.
He doesn’t fuck you. Not yet. He noses your cheek, instead, surprisingly gentle, and he kisses you there. And then he kisses the edge of your brow, and your temple, and your forehead. Just — gentle. Soft. Like he’s telling you something, or — trying to — but this is all his mouth can do.
He stops when you whine, softly, because you need him closer. You put your palms on his chest and push up, lightly. He breaks his kiss and pulls back. His forehead hangs over yours.
“Please,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay, angel.”
His hands are splayed somewhere beside your head. He moves one of them, now, to wrap around the base of his cock and guide himself into you. He slides in easily, so fucking easily, like he just fits there. Your head sinks into the pillow and your nails sink into his skin, into the muscle on his arms, and you’re sure he’ll have marks there. Little crescent cuts to go with all the rest.
He sets a slow, patient rhythm. He’s usually rougher, faster, and you’re pretty sure his show of self-restraint is driving you crazier than him. He’s hitting something deep inside you, over and over, not quite fast enough to push you over the edge but steady enough to keep you there.
And even though the cabin is empty, and you don’t have to be quiet, you are — because he’s kissing you. He swallows all your quiet moans and his own tangled, whimpered name.
He pulls halfway out of you. Drags his mouth away to breathe. You gasp at the emptiness but he swallows that, too — he flexes his hips, and thrusts into you, and his tongue is sliding back to yours before he’s even fully gone.
You have never — never — fucked Joel like this. You’ve never fucked anyone like this. Not in a dorm room, or a frat party, or a childhood bedroom that feels too cramped, now. Not your ex-boyfriend Carter, or any guy at school, or Hayes.
Not anyone. Not ever. Not until now.
“Feel good,” he’s mumbling, in those rare seconds when his mouth leaves yours. “Feel fuckin’—good.”
He pulls out, again. Thrusts back into you. This time he groans, into your mouth, and his hips stumble a little. His cock twitches. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, clench around him, and he breaks your kiss with a gasp.
“Fuck,” he pants. “D-do that again.”
You’d make him work for it, usually, but you can’t bring yourself to tease him. You drag him closer; squeeze tight around his cock, and his head drops to your shoulder. He pushes into you —less steady, less restrained — and finally picks up the pace.
You loop your hands around the back of his neck. Let your head go hazy. But when the pressure at the pit of your stomach starts to build, you tell him —
“—Wait—”
—in a shallow, breathless voice.
He stops. Immediately. He slips out of you, and his head whips from your shoulder, and he looks at you with wide eyes.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What's wrong? Did I—”
“No,” you say, quickly. “No. I just—”
You trail off, a lot more self-conscious now than you were two seconds ago. Easier to demand things of him when he’s railing you, you guess.
“I just wanted to—or, I wanted you to—”
You’re blushing, again. Your eyes dart to the side, away from his.
The concern drips out of his stare. He knows exactly what you want — what you’re trying to ask for — because he knows you.
Now, he looks — amused. And fucking smug, again.
“All y’gotta do is ask,” he drawls.
You swallow.
“Or you could just tell me,” you say, quietly.
You watch his eyes go dark. He likes that. You know he does, because you know him.
“Flip over,” he says.
You flip over. Stomach-down on the towel. Your cheek digs into the pillow. His hands wrap around your calves and he drags you down, lower, and you let him manhandle you. You let him move you the way he wants.
And then he’s settling over you again, and you can’t see him but you can feel him. His weight, behind you. His hand, when he shoves your shirt up and puts his palm on the small of your back.
“Hold still,” he says, for the thousandth time tonight. You smile.
“Or what?” You grin into the pillow. Try to lift your hips and push against him. But you keep forgetting how strong he is, even with one lazy palm sprawled out across your back. He pins you down too easily. “You’re gonna bring out the belt?”
You hear his huff.
“Keep ya still without the belt,” he says.
“Not a chance.”
You can feel him roll his eyes. This must’ve been how he felt, earlier this afternoon, when you’d rolled your eyes behind his back. You can't see him, but you just know.
“No?” he drawls.
It’s a terrible attempt to rile him up. But he’s humoring you.
You mumble your no into the pillow. Shake your head.
You hear him sigh above you. Then his palm lifts off the small of your back, just briefly, just for a second — before he cracks it down across your ass. It’s not hard, really — not hard enough to hurt — but it’s enough to leave a mark. Enough to make you yelp.
“F—”
He does it again. Same spot. The sting that sticks behind is sweet.
You swear into the pillow. Your skin glows white-hot. If he flipped you over right now, you’re not sure if you’d slap him, or kiss him, or beg him to fuck you.
Probably the last one. Definitely the last one.
“You never fuckin’ listen,” he says.
His palm settles over your ass. Over the handprint you’re sure he’s already made.
“You gonna hold still?”
This time you nod. As best you can.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say.
He squeezes your ass.
“‘Atta girl,” he says.
Then he slides into you, one hand braced on the towel beside you and the other on your ass, and you have to bite into the pillowcase to keep from mangling his name.
The angle he’s hitting is so much deeper, and so much different, and he’s splitting you open all over again, and —
“Fuck,” he pants, “you—fuck.”
He flexes his hips. Thrusts deeper into you. This is a much different pace than the one he’d set before, when he’d peppered you with gentle kisses and gentler words. This is something else entirely. This is rough, and untethered, and exactly what you tried to ask for.
He fists your hair in his palm and pulls, yanking your chin up off of the pillow, wrapping your hair around his knuckles while he slams into you. You gasp for breath.
“This what you needed, baby girl?”
You say something. You’re not sure what.
He pulls on your hair. Tilts your neck back, further.
“Yes,” you yelp, “Fuck! Y-yes.”
He lets you go. Lets your head drop back to the pillow. His hand is back on your ass, splayed out in a possessive sprawl.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “’S what you needed.”
He pushes deeper into you. Groans, softly. His flannel scrunches up around your cheek, your mouth, and you bite down on the fabric.
His hand drifts lower, over your ass. His thumb skims the ring of muscle there.
You tighten. He notices — he must — because he stills, for a minute. But his thumb doesn’t move.
There’s a beat. You take a breath.
“No?” he asks, softly, and you already know what he’s asking.
You go to shake your head, reflexively — you’ve said no every time, to everyone, no matter how creative or long-winded or desperate the proposition. Just — no.
“S’okay, angel,” he says, gently. “Don’t have to.”
“No,” you say, quickly — but you’re not saying no to him, you realize. “I want — I want you to.”
“Don’t sound too sure.”
“No, I am, I’ve just never—”
There’s silence. You can feel him above you, gauging your reaction. Gauging the blush on your upturned cheek.
“I want to,” you say, again. And you mean it. You want to, with him.
“Okay,” he murmurs. But his thumb still doesn’t move. He doesn’t move.
“Joel,” you say, a little impatient, now, because you’ve been on the edge for so long, and you just gave him permission, so what the fuck is he waiting f—
“Relax,” he says, quietly. He’s not rough anymore. He’s just Joel. “Relax, angel.”
You only realize how … not relaxed you are when you actually, really try to relax. Everything is tense. Your jaw, your stomach, the fist you’ve wrapped around his sheets.
You’re nervous. Which — okay, fine — but this is Joel. With the gentle Texas drawl, and the warm hands, and the flannel shirt that smells like sunshine.
It’s just Joel. And you trust Joel.
So you do relax. For real. You let your jaw go loose and untangle your fingers.
“I trust you,” you mumble, into the pillow.
He’s quiet.
“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I know, baby.”
Then he pushes back into you, stretching you out, and you breathe his name into his flannel. His thumb nudges at your ass and you push your hips back, into him. You want him to.
“Easy,” he murmurs, and you’re not sure who he’s talking to. His thumb pushes into you — just the tip — and you hiss into his shirt. But that’s it. It hurts for a second, maybe, and then it doesn’t. He’s crooking his thumb, pressing deeper into you, hitting something deep inside you, and you just feel full. You feel like he’s fucking everywhere — inside you, and on your skin, and in the words you can’t say.
“Fuck,” you gasp, “Joel, fuck—”
“Good?” he asks. He’s not really moving, and you realize he’s waiting for your green-light: waiting for you to re-set the pace.
“Yes,” you plead. “Fuck, yes, please just—”
You whimper. Mumble around his shirt.
“—don’t stop,” you tell him. “Don’t fucking — stop.”
That’s all the green-light he needs. He snaps his hips up, into you, and he fucks you at that frantic, furious pace you’d begged him for. You push back weakly; against his hips, against his thumb, but you’re content to just let him take over. You can’t think straight, anyway. Everything is foggy and white and bright, and when he takes you to the edge this time you let yourself fall.
“Doin’ so good, baby,” he’s saying, over and over again, good girl, good girl, doin’ so fuckin’ good f’me, look so good like this—and you can barely hear him, because you’re so blissed out, but you feel him, when his hips trip into you and he spills inside you with a strangled cry. You feel him, when his chest crumbles to your back. You feel his heart beat through your shoulder blades, frenzied and wild.
It takes you a long time to catch your breath. It takes him even longer. When you’re aware of your surroundings again — when you can hear things that aren’t your own pulse between your ears — you roll over and touch him.
His eyes are closed. Or half-closed, at least. He looks like he’s dozing, or drifting, or in some kind of happy, dreamlike, almost-sleep. You feel kind of bad, waking him up. He hardly ever looks this…peaceful.
You prod him. When that doesn’t work you nuzzle into his shoulder, and kiss his cheek, and nip at his jaw until he groans.
“Mmmph,” he grumbles, which is not usually a sentence, but which you’ve learned in Joel-speak can mean a myriad of things, like who the fuck is bothering me and why the fuck are they bothering me and can you please stop fucking bothering me.
“Move,” you say, pushing at his arm. It’s like moving a grizzly bear. But he does move, eventually, with a long-suffering sound that makes you roll your eyes and laugh.
“What?” he grumbles.
“The towel,” you say, and you hate that you still sound shy. That that self-conscious streak has wriggled back in. “I’m gonna — I need to clean up. So do you.”
He opens his eyes, then. He rolls over and frowns.
“Go get ’n the shower,” he says.
“But—”
“I’ll take care ‘f it,” he says.
You look hesitantly at the towel. At him.
“I can do it,” you say.
“Didn’t say y’couldn’t,” he drawls. Then he’s rolling off the bed, and tugging the towel out from under you, and you have no choice but to stand up and let his shirt drip back over your knees.
“But—”
“But nothin’,” he says. He nods toward the bathroom. “Go. Hot water ain’t great. Only lasts a couple minutes.”
You stare at him. But then you go, because he said so, and there’s really no arguing with him. So you shower while he puts the towel and the sheets and the pillowcases in the laundry, and when he’s done he joins you in there.
The hot water is almost gone, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t complain. He washes your hair, and works out the tangles, and swipes soap off your jaw with even soapier fingers.
“Thanks,” you say, a little awkwardly. “For — cleaning up.”
He shrugs.
“It’s nothin’,” he says. And it is nothing, to him. Everything is just — nothing. Except for you.
You let him have a turn under the water. It’s pretty much icy, now. Your teeth clatter while you wait for him.
“We should probably make dinner,” you say, while he sloughs shampoo from his hair.
He opens his eyes. Blinks water at you.
He’s a terrible chef. And you’re too wiped to even think about cooking. You both know both of these things, so you just — stare at each other. Eventually he turns the water off, and bundles you in a towel, and dries himself off with another.
“Or,” you say, slowly, “we could just eat the Ben and Jerry’s.”
He pauses, mid-towel dry.
“Chunks of real cookie dough,” you remind him.
“Mm.” He pulls a tee shirt on over his head. “Lead the way.”
You do eat the Ben and Jerry’s. The whole thing, between the two of you, and even he has to admit that it’s — in his own words — pretty alright.
After that you’re both full, and a little hopped up on half a pint of sugar, so you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap and you ask him every stupid question that flies into your mind. He rubs your feet while you talk, like he’s silently praying you might just wear yourself out.
But he indulges you. There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s turned the fireplace on, with a lighter he found somewhere deep in the kitchen, and his face flickers in the glow — orange, red, orange, again.
“Favorite color,” you say.
He tips his head to the ceiling.
“Brown.”
“Oh my god. Brown?”
“’S wrong with brown?”
“Dirt is brown. Mud is brown. No one’s favorite color is brown.”
But you’re realizing, as you’re saying it, that you’re wrong. His hair is brown. Deep brown, dark brown, like a forest after rain. His eyes are brown. Light, sometimes, like water over silt, and sometimes almost-black. His flannels are brown: brown and red, brown and yellow, brown and something, and he always looks like autumn.
So he’s right, you think, when he says brown is his favorite color. You think maybe it’s yours now, too.
“What?” he asks, when you’re quiet too long.
You look up at him. Brown eyes, tired. Brown hair, tousled.
“Nothing,” you say. “Next question.”
“Childhood pet,” you say.
“Black lab. Cooper. Used t’hunt ducks.”
“Like that one?” You nod toward the desk, where his little wood duck sits facing the moon.
He makes a soft sound.
“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
“And when did you start wood…working?”
“Carvin’,” he amends. His thumb stills on the arch of your foot while he thinks. “Dunno,” he shrugs, after a while. “After Sarah came ‘long, I guess. ’S—relaxin’.”
“You should sell them,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Like. At a Farmer’s Market, or something.”
He half-laughs. But then he sees you’re serious — or as serious as you can manage, in your fucked-out, sugar-high, loopy sort of bliss, and he shakes his head.
“Nah,” he says.
“Why not?”
“‘Cause no one would buy ‘em,” he says. “They ain’t any good. And,” he adds, when your mouth snaps open to protest, “—‘cause they’re—part ‘a me.”
Your mouth snaps back shut.
“What d’you mean, part of you?”
“They’re mine,” he says, a little helpless. “I made ‘em. Don’t wanna give ‘em away.”
“Sell them,” you amend.
“Don’t wanna sell ‘em,” he says. “Ain’t worth anythin’, anyway. ‘Cept to me.”
“And me.” You prop yourself up on your elbows. Look at him across the couch. “They’re worth something to me.”
He actually does smile at that. Not — smug, or self-satisfied — but shy. Sweet and shy and a little bit sheepish.
“Okay,” you say. “One more question.”
“Said that ten questions ago.”
“I was lying. This is the last one.”
“Mm,” he says. But he lets you go.
“What’s his name?”
“What?” He blinks at you. “Who?”
“The duck,” you say. “What’s his name?”
He’s silent, for a moment.
“Ain’t got a name,” he says. “’S a duck.”
“Ducks have names. Donald Duck. Daisy Duck.”
“Those ‘re fake ducks,” he says.
“So’s yours,” you say.
“Jesus,” he says.
But it’s soundproof logic, so — you win. He sighs, heavily.
“Clyde,” you say, after a minute.
“Clyde?”
“Yeah. That’s his name. He’s British.”
“Mm.” He leans back against the cushions. His hand strokes a lazy line, from your calf to your ankle and back up again. “Long way from home.”
“Yeah,” you agree. Your eyes are heavy, now. You rest your head against the arm of the couch and stretch your legs out in his lap. “Poor Clyde.”
He chuckles, softly, and that makes you smile. You flex your foot against his hand and close your eyes.
You sit quietly for a few long minutes. You maybe — maybe — fall asleep.
His voice wakes you. His gentle hand below your knee.
“Tired?” he murmurs.
“No,” you say, without opening your eyes. “I’m — resting my eyes.”
“Okay,” he says. “Well. Y’can rest your eyes in bed.”
You try to mumble something in protest. You don’t want to go anywhere. You like it right here, with your feet in his lap and your head on the couch and the fireplace warming your skin. You like how close he is, how domestic. You don’t want it to change. You don’t want the sun to rise.
You want to stay right here.
But you’re fighting a losing battle, because he’s moving your legs aside, gently, and standing up off the couch, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing at all.
“C’mon,” he mutters.
You don’t argue anymore. You let your head slump in his shoulder and your nose nudge at his neck. You kiss him there, lightly, and you hear his hum in response. Warm and silk-smooth.
He puts you down and disappears for a few minutes — to lock the door, and turn the fireplace off, and check the windows are sealed. Then he comes back in, and shucks his sweatpants and his shirt off, and when he climbs into bed beside you you nuzzle at his side.
He’s like sleeping with a space heater. Every part of him is a thousand fucking degrees. Which is nice, because you’re freezing. You chalk it up to genetics, or the half-pint of frozen ice cream floating through your bloodstream. Either way he lets you burrow into him. Under his arm and into the warm plane of his chest.
“G’night,” you say, softly.
He kisses you. Somewhere buried in your hair.
“Night, angel,” he murmurs.
You could swear he mumbles something else, too — something softer — but you’re half-asleep already. You don’t hear, and he doesn’t repeat it.
And then you really do sleep, wrapped up in his arms and pressed to his heart, and when you dream they’re all of him.
When you wake up it’s still dark. Which sucks, but — you have to pee, and the only thing left over from your Ben and Jerry’s dinner is a fucking headache, and you have cramps that bite you awake.
Great, you think. It’s the trifecta.
And there’s something else, too, something bigger and heavier that won’t let you sleep, but you don’t — or you won’t — think about that, right now. Right now you roll out of bed, eyes adjusting to the dark, and you hobble over hardwood to the bathroom.
You only turn the light on when you’re sealed inside. Joel’s a heavy sleeper, but — still. You don’t want to wake him. He deserves the rest.
You dig around in your bag and slam two Tylenol — one for the headache and one for the cramps. Or so you figure. You use the bathroom, wash your hands — and by the time you’re back in the bedroom you’re wide awake.
Naturally.
So — fuck it. You grab a hoodie from your duffel and slip out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the living room and to the front door Joel’s dead-bolted.
You undo the latch and let yourself outside. You leave the door open but close the screen behind you — so you won’t lock yourself out, on accident. You don’t love the thought of spending the night — or whatever’s left of it, at least — outside.
You’re not sure what time it is. If it’s closer to morning or to night. The sky is pitch-black, littered silver with stars, and the water on the pebbled lake is glittering, moon-grey.
It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. You can’t remember the last time you looked at the stars.
You pick your way over to one of Tommy’s Adirondack chairs, sprawled out across the porch. It’s huge — big enough for two people, easily — and you slouch down against the slats. It makes you smile, how small you feel. In the too-big chair under the too-big sky. You put your hand on the wooden arm and tilt your head up to the stars.
Behind you the screen door opens, and whines, and then shudders shut. Joel’s heavy footsteps join you on the porch.
You twist around in the chair. He’s leaning up against the cabin wall, in a grey Dallas Cowboys shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair is mussed. He’s got a chipped mug in his hands that he cups with both palms.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. His drawl is still thick. He must’ve just woken up.
“Not really.” You frown. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He shrugs.
“Didn’t wake me,” he says. “Room just felt empty.”
You’re quiet. Steam twists out of the mug and drifts apart in the cold air.
You don’t know what to say. That thing that will not let you sleep is getting bigger, heavier.
So you nod, quietly. And you accept the mug, when he peels himself off of the wall and offers it with both hands.
“What is it?” you ask, a little skeptical. You put your nose over the rim and sniff.
“Tea,” he says. There’s a pause, then he adds, “Peppermint.”
Peppermint. Your favorite. You told him as much, just a few nights ago — and apparently he listened.
You take a tentative sip. Smile. He made it right, this time. Kept the bag in long enough.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Had some at that gas station, on our way up. I just thought—” He shrugs. “Just ’n case.”
“Just in case,” you repeat. You take another sip.
“It’s good,” you say, quietly. “Thanks.”
He smiles. You think he looks pleased. He takes a seat in the other Adirondack chair, beside you, and you watch the moon paint his face silver. His jaw, his cheek, the bruise under his eye and the slice across his nose. Everything looks lighter. More muted, less angry.
You put the mug down on the chair’s arm. Then you stand, careful not to let it spill, and you go to his chair, instead.
He makes room for you right away. You don’t ask him to, but he does. He scoots back, spreads his legs, and you drape yourself across his lap. His nose nestles in your hair, by the shell of your ear.
"Y'alright?" he asks.
"Yeah," you tell him. "I think so."
But you're not, really, and he can tell. He can read your mind, or something close to it. So you're not all that surprised when he noses your ear, a little more insistent, and says—
“Hey. Talk t'me."
The irony of Joel Miller, asking you to talk to him. You’d laugh, if it didn’t feel like something was sitting on your chest.
“I don’t know,” you mumble. But you do know. “It’s nothing.”
He’s quiet, for a moment. You wonder if he’ll let it go.
“Your dad?” he asks.
“No,” you say. Which is the truth. You haven’t thought about your dad since you texted him, half a day ago now. It’s not him.
Joel is silent again. You turn in his arms to look him in the eye.
“It’s nothing,” you repeat. “It’s not—it’s stupid.”
He takes a breath. Lifts a finger to your face, and traces a strand of hair.
“Bet it ain’t stupid,” he says, softly.
“Yeah.” You push out a laugh. It sounds hollow. “It is. It’s dumb. Let’s just — drop it.”
You can feel him studying you. Watching you. But he’s quiet, and he doesn’t ask you again, because you asked him to drop it. He only says, “okay, angel,” in that syrupy drawl, and strokes your arm with a rough thumb.
And you appreciate that. You do. But you kind of fucking wish he’d ask you until you break, if only to get this weight off of your ribs and your chest and your stomach and your heart.
But he doesn’t. Because that’s not Joel. Joel listens. He listens when you tell him your favorite tea. He listens when you tell him to leave it alone.
He changes the subject, instead. He brings his hand up beside your face and points to the sky.
“’S, uh — Orion, I think.”
“Oh.” You blink. The change in subject throws you a little, but — you follow his index finger. Squint up at the dark. You have no fucking idea what you’re looking at, but he seems eager enough.
“Sure,” you lie. It all looks the same to you. Just a bunch of streaky silver. Beautiful streaky silver, but — still.
“To the left,” he says, gently, and you can hear the smile on his lips. His breath tickles your cheek, your neck, your collar.
He drops his pointer finger. Puts his hand on your jaw, instead, and tilts your head in the right direction.
“There,” he mutters. “Now look.”
And you actually do see it, this time.
At least, you think you do. It’s hard to concentrate, with his fingers so close to your neck. With his voice like starlit silk in your ear.
You shift a little in his lap. The wind whistles, whinging off the lake, and his arm tightens reflexively around you. Possessive. Protective. But — gentle, too. Always gentle.
It bubbles up in your throat again. That thing you can’t keep down. That thing that will not let you sleep.
“Joel,” you whisper. It sounds like a whine.
“Yeah.”
You turn to look at him again. His hand is still on your jaw, fingers slack, just — holding you. His thumb rolls over your chin.
You shake your head. Fuck.
“Yeah,” he repeats. “I know, baby.”
“No you don’t,” you say. Your throat feels tight. You’re angry, you think — not with him, just — at the sky. At Orion. At yourself. Just fucking say it.
“I want—but I don’t want to—”
His thumb inches to your bottom lip. He holds it there, effectively shutting you up.
“S’okay,” he says, softly.
His thumb strokes higher — to the edge of your mouth and then back down, over your chin, to the ridge of your jaw. He’s tracing you. Mapping you like the stars.
“S’okay, angel,” he echoes, and you’re still shaking your head when he speaks again. Low. Gentle. So, so gentle. “I love you, too.”
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