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Assistant: Title: Fourth of July
        Author: jrrmint jrrmint 
        Chapter: 4/14 
        Summary: You’ve known Joel Miller for years. He’s practically part of the family - always by your dad’s side with that dark, brooding frown.You’ve never really thought much of him. He’s just…Joel. Dad’s best friend, occasional ride home, somewhat-scowly dinner guest.Until you come home one summer, after graduating college, and suddenly -You can’t think about anything anything else.
        Contents: Chapter 4: cinephile
    

    

        
          
          
            
   “’S a seat right here.” He releases his grip on your ankle and pats the spot beside him. Then he leans back on his elbows, sprawled out on the grass. “‘F you want.”

  Your heart nudges at your throat. You cast a wary glance behind you — up the makeshift aisle in the yard, where your neighbors are spread picnic-style — and try to spot your dad. Or Sarah. Neither notices you.

  “Okay,” you say, softly. You step over his legs and sit beside him.

  He smiles. Small; Joel, but genuine. He grabs a blanket and tosses it across both of your laps.

  It’s dark by the time the movie starts. You’re pretty sure it’s E.T., but you can’t really be sure, because the second the opening credits play Joel’s hand is on your thigh.

  And then you can’t think about anything else. 

          
        

      
        
          no comment just sm@t
            
            (See the end of the chapter for  more notes.)
            
      
  

  
  
    
    
  You barely sleep after your late-night swim with Joel. You spend most of the night — what’s left of it, anyway — thinking about him. His lips. His hands. His head between your thighs. 

  You make yourself c@m twice with his name on your mouth. Your vibrator remains untouched, tucked away in the top shelf of your nightstand. You doubt you’ll need it anytime soon. 

  So it’s understandable you’re tired — exhausted, even — when movie night rolls around the next evening. You’re half-asleep on the couch when your dad comes bouncing down the steps with a beer in his hand. 

  He walks up to the couch. Jabs your leg with his shoe. 

  “What are you, eighty?” he teases. “Can’t even make it to seven o’clock?” 

  You make a noncommittal sound. Your eyes flicker open and you yawn. 

  “Late night?” he asks, eyeing you. He’d been asleep by the time you’d come home last night. He hadn’t seen you unlatch the door with trembling hands and scale the stairs in Joel’s shirt. “You and Sarah have fun?” 

  “Uh—” You shake your head, clearing the cobwebs. It’s an innocent question, but your heart still pounds. “Yeah. We went swimming.” 

  He nods. “Was Joel there?” 

  Now you’re awake. Your head whips to him. You straighten on the couch, nails biting at the cushions. 

  “I don’t — um. What — why?” 

  Your dad shrugs. He looks at you, a little perplexed, and lifts his hands in mock surrender. 

  “Just a question. Jeez. Been tryin’ to get ahold of him since the Fourth of July. I think he’s avoidin’ me.” 

  “Oh.” You pick at a nail. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe he has work, or something. You said he had that big client.” 

  “Maybe.” He shrugs again. “But you didn’t see him. While you were with Sarah.” 

  “Um.” You hesitate. “No. I mean, he might’ve come in later. I dont know. We were watching a movie.” 

  You’re not sure why you lie. It would be just as easy to admit that you’d seen him. But then there’d be the follow-up: How’d he seem? You talk to him? — and the thought of discussing Joel Miller right here, now, on the couch with your dad — is enough to make you squirm. 

  For what it’s worth, your dad seems unfazed. 

  “Ah, well. Guess I’ll see him tonight, anyway. I’ll find out what’s up.” 

  Your breath stumbles. You nod, avoiding his gaze when a blush creeps in. You mumble something about getting ready and shove off of the couch, slipping past him before he can notice the marks on your skin. The blurred almost-bruises where Joel’s teeth scraped your neck. 

  You do your best to cover them up before you come back downstairs. But the concealer you’re using is mediocre, at best, and the angry red seeps through. You settle for wearing your hair down, around your neck, and hope to god it gets the job done. 

  Your dad is waiting by the door when you return. He gives you a cursory glance — 

  “New dress?” 

  —and your skin flushes. 

  “Um, yeah.” 

  “Looks nice, kid.” 

  “Thanks.” You manage a smile. You sure as hell don’t tell him who it’s for. 

  You follow him out the door and down the street. It’s warm out again — Texas summers — and there’s the gentle, persistent buzz of a thousand cicadas. A lone black cloud drips over the road. 

  Your dad points it out while you walk. “Better hope it doesn’t rain,” he says. “Alicia’s been plannin’ to host for a month now. She’ll be p@ss@d.” 

  You’re only half-listening. But your ears perk up at the name. 

  Alicia Simmons. Ms. Simmons to you. The same Ms. Simmons who’d had her manicured claws in Joel just last week at his barbecue. 

  “You didn’t tell me she was hosting,” you say, carefully. A scowl tugs at your mouth.

  “Didn’t think you’d care,” your dad says. 

  “I don’t,” you say, quickly. Too quickly. “I just…didn’t know.” 

  He looks at you. But for all his qualities he’s not exactly perceptive, and he doesn’t clock the look on your face, or the bloom of red on your collar when the breeze lifts your hair. So he lets it go, the way dads do. Leads the way to Ms. Simmons while you drag your feet behind him. 

  

  She knows how to host. You’ll give her that much. 

  Her house is at the end of the block, at the top of a cul-de-sac. Long and low and suburban, like the rest, but with a distinct touch of divorcee. A tiny white dog greets you at the door — badly groomed and trained even worse, with a blinged-out tag that reads PRINCE. 

  She’s gone all out in the yard for movie night. Blankets piled on the grass. Round, colorful cushions scattered like candy. A giant outdoor screen propped up by metal spokes. It’s still being set up when you wander out there — by none other than Joel Miller, you realize, when he steps around the front to admire his handiwork. 

  He does a double-take when he sees you standing there, flanked by your dad. He recovers nicely, though — always smooth, in control — and wipes his forearm across his brow. 

  Your stomach swirls. It would be embarrassing, the effect he has on you, if it wasn’t so strong. You look down at the ground, and you can feel his gaze sweep you. Your legs, your thighs, the hem of the dress you’ve worn just for him. 

  And then the heat lifts off your skin, and you hear him say something to your dad. You figure it’s safe to look, so you do — and, f@ck. 

  He looks good. 

  He always looks good. But the way he’s standing right now: sleeves shoved to his elbows, hammer hanging from his hand as he straightens from the spokes — it makes your breath hitch. 

  If he feels you staring he doesn’t let on. It drives you crazy how poised he is. How casual. Drawling out some easy, Joel-excuse when your dad asks him why he’s been ditching his calls. 

  Just been busy, you hear him say. Lotta smart-ass clients these days. 

  You don’t miss the smirk he gives you, in the split-second when your dad looks away. 

  You’re interrupted — maybe mercifully so — by Ms. Simmons herself, waltzing into the yard to examine Joel’s work. The movie hasn’t started and she’s already plastered. 

  “I knew you’d figure it out,” she slurs, placing a hand on Joel’s bicep. His brows lift, but he doesn’t say anything. She leans in, theatrically close. “You’re amazing. So good with that hammer.” 

  Oh, Jesus. You have to look away to keep from gagging. Even your dad stifles a smile. He might be oblivious, but she’s about as subtle as a plane crash. 

  Joel takes it in stride. Ever the gentleman. He mutters something about getting the movie started, finding a seat, talking to Sarah — three excuses for the price of one — and wanders off into the sea of neighbors. 

  You excuse yourself, too, before she can corner you. She goes to turn the movie on, finally, and you scan the yard in search of a seat. Your dad is unavailable — scooped up by a group of golfing buddies. Sarah is similarly out of commission, wrapped up in a posse of old high school friends. You don’t want to crash her party. 

  You spot an empty patch of grass by the front of the screen. You almost make it there before a hand snakes fast around your ankle. 

  You start, catching yourself before you can trip. Your foot drags on the grass. 

  You glance down. Joel looks up at you, head tilted halfway to the side, hand wrapped loose around your ankle. 

  Your pulse drums. 

  “Where you goin’?” he drawls. 

  “To my seat?” 

  “’S a seat right here.” He releases his grip on your ankle and pats the spot beside him. Then he leans back on his elbows, sprawled out on the grass. “‘F you want.” 

  Your heart nudges at your throat. You cast a wary glance behind you — up the makeshift aisle in the yard, where your neighbors are spread picnic-style — and try to spot your dad. Or Sarah. Neither notices you. 

  “Okay,” you say, softly. You step over his legs and sit beside him. 

  He smiles. Small; Joel, but genuine. He grabs a blanket and tosses it across both of your laps. 

  It’s dark by the time the movie starts. You’re pretty sure it’s E.T., but you can’t really be sure, because the second the opening credits play Joel’s hand is on your thigh. 

  And then you can’t think about anything else. 

  He shifts closer to you, drawing circles on your knee with the tip of his finger. His hand moves higher, dragging goosebumps up your thigh, and his knuckles bump the hem of your dress. You get it, now. Why he asked you to wear this. The thought makes you shiver. 

  He’s moving so. f@ck@ng. slowly. Two hour movie, and at this rate he’s planning on taking the whole runtime to work his way up your leg. You squirm, a little impatient, and start to hike your dress up yourself when Alicia Simmons — f@ck@ng Alicia — materializes in front of you like a washed-out ghost. 

  You freeze. You’re covered up by the blanket, but you still drop your hand. 

  Joel doesn’t. His palm stays glued to your thigh, big and broad and warm, squeezing gently even as Alicia clambers awkwardly over the blankets to sit on the other side of him. 

  “Thought I’d squeeze in,” she whispers, loudly. “Nowhere else to sit.” 

  You bristle. You can spot about a thousand other places to sit in your peripheral alone. 

  Joel grunts. You’re not sure why it annoys you — it’s not like you expect him to tell her no, and kick her out of her own backyard — but, if you’re honest, you’d kind of like him to. 

  He scoots over to allow her room. She spreads out beside him, too close to be comfortable, and leans into his side with a sigh. 

  He ignores her. His gaze stays fixed on the screen. His fingers flex at the seam of your thigh. 

  You try your best to watch the movie too. But you’re not as stoic as Joel — not as unreadable — and you pluck angry fistfuls of grass from your side. You’re p@ss@d. You hate the way she’s leaning on him, hate the wine you can smell on her breath, hate the lipstick that smears with her satisfied smile.

  His free hand — the one not currently squeezing your thigh — isn’t covered by the blanket. It’s splayed at his side, palm flat against the grass. You can see Alicia’s gears turning, out of the corner of your eye — and then, sure enough, her long, painted nails as they skate across his knuckles.

  “F@ck’s sake,” you hiss. It’s barely audible. But it’s loud enough for Joel to hear — loud enough to draw his gaze from the screen, momentarily, and catch the fire in your eyes. 

  He adjusts himself, subtly moving his hand from hers. It’s smooth; inconspicuous. She probably doesn’t even realize he’s done it on purpose.

  His other hand — the one burning a brand on your thigh — moves half an inch higher.

  Your breath catches. You squirm and his grip doubles down. 

  He leans forward, slightly, and puts his hand to his mouth like he’s biting back a cough. Then he growls at you, muffled, only loud enough for you to hear. 

  “Keep f@ck@n’ still.” 

  Your body responds to him immediately. You settle. 

  He leans back. His hand slips beneath your hem and his knuckles ghost fabric. You lift your hips — almost instinctively — and his hand clamps around your leg. You watch his jaw flicker. He doesn’t tear his gaze from the movie, but the message is clear. What did I just say? 

  You swallow. You try your best to stay still; completely still, as his fingers stroke up your thigh. When he grazes the edge of your underwear you part your knees, making room for his broad hand between your legs. 

  You wait for him to scold you. But he doesn’t, this time. Either he doesn’t notice you move — you doubt it — or this is affecting him more than his stony expression lets on. Judging by the way his fingers tense against you, stinging into your skin — you guess it’s the latter. 

  You’re soaking wet for him already. Half an hour of aimless touching; of him dragging tiny, hopeless circles on your thigh — has driven you ten kinds of crazy. He feels it, too, when he brushes damp cotton. 

  His finger catches the edge of your underwear. He pulls the fabric to the side and you swallow a sigh. 

  You try to keep your eyes on the screen, even as Joel’s middle finger dips halfway inside you. The angle is awkward — you’re side-by-side on the grass, your legs parted under the blanket for him — but he’s surprisingly dexterous. He pretends to readjust again, moving imperceptibly nearer, and the added closeness lets him sink inside you to the knuckle.

  You barely stifle your moan. It’s a good thing the movie is so f@ck@ng loud, you think, absently. It drowns the tiny noise you let slip. 

  But Joel hears it. He’s close enough; turned toward the screen but so finely tuned to you that he doesn’t miss a beat. He pauses with his finger hooked inside you. You’re so desperate for him to move that you abandon all shame and lift your hips off the grass, rutting against the heel of his palm. The blanket hikes half an inch and exposes a sliver of skin. 

  He’ll tell you off, now. You’re sure of it. Some twisted part of you almost hopes that he does. 

  But — as it turns out — he doesn’t have to. Alicia Simmons does that for him. She gives a dramatic sigh and yawns, fading into Joel’s shoulder. Oldest trick in the book. If you were any less preoccupied you might think to roll your eyes. Instead you just hiss; a low, annoyed sound, mingled heavy with arousal as Joel crooks his finger just right. 

  He sits up a little straighter. This time it’s not so subtle, the way he rolls Alicia off his shoulder. The way his palm bumps your swollen, aching cl@t. 

  He tilts his head toward you. Whispers in your ear, soft and rough and fleeting as his fingers find that spongy spot inside you and drag out a gasp. 

  “Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” he growls. 

  It takes everything in you not to turn and look at him. To not tear the blanket off of your lap and rip his hand away. Teach him a lesson for being so c@cky. Or — who are you kidding — to not just grab his wrist and f@ck yourself on his fingers til you scream. 

  “Don’t,” he warns, like he can read your mind. His breath rasps along your ear. “You’ll make a f@ck@n’ scene.” 

  You’re so stubborn, usually. It’s hard to believe that it’s Joel, of all people,  who finally gets you to behave. The Joel who used to pay you to babysit his daughter. The Joel who taught you to drive stick. The Joel who’s got his hand up your dress, right now, f@ck@ng into you with two soaked, lazy fingers. 

  It’s filthy. It’s wrong. He’s got another woman hanging by his shoulder while his wrist pumps between your legs. Your dad is four rows back on the grass, probably watching the back of your head as it tips in muted pleasure. And Joel — f@ck@ng Joel — is still watching the screen with that perfect, immovable stare. 

  Your muscles clench around his knuckles. Heat pools white-hot in the pit of your stomach. You start to rock into his palm again, more desperately this time, seeking any sort of added friction.

  You look at him, quickly. You catch a glimpse of his profile, cast in the glow of the screen. The flinch in his jaw when you squirm on his hand is the only indication he’s remotely affected.

  He leans into your space again. Puts his lips to your ear. To anyone watching you’re sure the movement looks innocent — a quiet question, maybe.

  And his voice is quiet, when it scrapes your neck. But it’s not a question. 

  “You’re gonna c@m for me," he mutters. He flexes his wrist, and you bite your lip to keep from screaming. “And you ain’t gonna make a f@ck@n’ sound.” 

  He crooks his finger. A whimper catches in your throat. 

  “Nod if you understand.” 

  You nod. Your breath pulls. 

  He leans back. Re-settles in his spot. His gaze returns to the screen, and you’d swear E.T. had his full attention, if it wasn’t for the heel of his palm grinding into your cl@t. 

  You’ve never been very good at keeping your mouth shut. It’s not a trait that’s serving your particularly well, right now. The heat in your core threatens to spill over with each hollow thrust of his fingers. 

  You drag the edge of the blanket up to your mouth and bite down on fuzzy fabric. He catches you in the corner of his eye and his hand moves faster, working you up and over the edge. 

  It takes everything in you not to rip the blanket out of your mouth and whine his name until your voice breaks. But there are people — so many people — your dad, and Sarah, and Alicia at his shoulder. So you keep quiet. 

  He only pulls his hand away when your muscles go slack. The scrap of blanket falls from your teeth. He adjusts himself — conspicuously, you think — and your cheeks blaze.

  You don’t hear a single word of the movie after that. You don’t even pretend to watch it. You watch him, instead — staring shamelessly at his jaw, at the denim that peeks from the blanket, at the still-slick hand that splays beside you in the grass. 

  F@ck. 

  You scoot closer to him. Make sure no one’s looking before sliding your hand under the blanket and into his lap. 

  He stiffens immediately at the contact. But he still — still — doesn’t look away from the screen. Alicia leans in to tell him something — nothing related to the movie, you’re sure — and cups her hand around his ear. 

  It spurs you on. It shouldn’t, but it does. You move your hand up his thigh and lay your palm on the bulge in his jeans. 

  He flinches. It’s maybe the first thing all night that he hasn’t controlled. You hear him start to respond to her, and then his voice catches and he clears his throat. 

  That makes you bolder. You drag your hand over the outline of his c@ck and feel him strain into your touch. He lets you go until it’s too much, apparently — and then his hand slips under the blanket to stop yours. 

  His grip bites. He holds your hand in place, palm pressed to the swell of his c@ck. There’s some big scene onscreen — shouting, strobing lights — and he takes the opportunity to hiss in your ear. 

  “What are you doin’, darlin’?” 

  His gaze flicks from the screen, just long enough to look at you. Long enough for you to read his lips when he drops his voice and adds, almost inaudible —

  “Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish.” 

  You wouldn’t dream of it. But the universe has other plans, it seems, because as soon as he speaks it starts to rain. 

  Pour is probably a better word. That cloud your dad had pointed out earlier seems to have finally made its way over. With a vengeance. Thunder rolls across the yard, drowning the surround-sound. Water lashes at the screen. 

  There’s confused chaos as twenty-something neighbors rush to stand. Alicia leaps up, abandoning her post at Joel’s shoulder, and starts to usher people inside. 

  It takes longer for Joel to stand than anyone else. He sits there in the grass, getting soaked to the bone, and you can guess the reason for the holdup when you see him trying to adjust his jeans under the blanket. 

  You hide your grin. You wait for him in the dry confines of the doorway as he stands, scowling, and crosses the yard. He’s drenched by the time he makes it to you. 

  He takes two steps inside and shakes his head like a dog. Water sloughs off his collar and sprinkles the hardwood. Your dad clocks the two of you by the door and wanders over, laughing a little at Joel’s bad luck. 

  “Christ,” he says. “You take the scenic route gettin’ inside?” 

  Joel’s scowl deepens. 

  “Alicia’s settin’ us back up in the den,” your dad continues. “Gonna keep the party goin’. Nothin’ stops that woman.” 

  “Got that right,” you mutter. 

  Joel’s gaze snaps to you. You feel the warning on your neck. But your dad is oblivious, as always. You’re not even sure he hears you. 

  “Go dry off and meet us in the livin’ room, he says, still chuckling. He shakes his head. “Jesus.” 

  And then, mercifully — he leaves you both. You watch him walk down the hall, into the living room, and the rest of your neighbors trickle in after him. 

  No one seems to notice that you and Joel haven’t joined them. That the two of you are still standing by the doorway, even as the last neighbor disappears into the den. 

  The second you’re alone — the second no one’s eyes are on you — Joel grabs your wrist. Hard. You yelp, stumbling over your feet as he drags you toward a set of stairs. The opposite direction of the living room. And decidedly off-limits, you’d think. 

  “Joel—” you wriggle in his grip. He’s stronger. “St — what — where are we going?” 

  He hauls you up the stairs, two at a time. Water drags off the hem of his flannel. 

  “Dryin’ off,” he says, simply. “Gotta get a towel.” 

  “Is that a—” he yanks you up, onto the landing, and tugs you down a muted hallway, “—a two person job?” 

  He stops dead in his tracks at the end of the hall, in front of a door. And then he looks at you, eyes blazing, and your stomach seizes. He looks hungry. Starved. His stare roves over you, black as coal, searing your skin. 

  “Get inside.” 

  “Um.” You look at him. Then the door. You’ve overshot the bathroom by at least a few paces — that door is half-open, a ways back down the hall. “Don’t think this is where the towels are.” 

  “Pit stop.” He leans his shoulder into the door and it gives, sneaking open. He pulls you inside and now you go willingly, practically stumbling over his feet. His hands are all over you the minute you’re inside — your hips, your hair, the hem of your dress. He nips at your neck and his voice soothes the mark, low and rough and breathless. “Gonna f@ck you first.” 

  You don’t bother hiding the noise you make. You’re too far gone. He hasn’t even f@ck@d you yet, not properly, and you’re already wrecked. He knows it, too. It’s why he looks so f@ck@ng smug, when his smile curves up the column of your throat. 

  Your hands go to his shoulders. To the damp flannel on his skin. You tug him closer and your back thumps the door. 

  “Joel,” you whimper. “Kiss me.” 

  He ignores you. His mouth drops, to the curve between your neck and shoulder, and his teeth sink into your skin. 

  You whine. Your nails dig into his shirt. 

  “Turn around,” he growls. 

  He’s not gonna kiss you. Not if you beg him, not if you ask nicely. The thought runs laps around your brain; makes your mind short-circuit as his hands find your waist and twist you around so you’re facing the door. 

  He’s punishing you. For teasing him on the grass. For getting him drenched. 

  The realization makes you weak. You feel him behind you: the ragged rise-fall of his chest at your back, and you bring both palms up to brace against the door. 

  There’s the rustle of leather behind you. A soft tink as he works his buckle undone. The sharp bite of metal when he drags his zipper down. He crowds the space at your back, hips pressed to your ass, and shoves your dress up and out of his way. 

  He doesn’t bother dragging your underwear down. He nudges them to the side — for the second time tonight — and his finger catches on your cl@t. 

  You gasp. Your hips roll into his. 

  He moves his hand back. The blunt head of his c@ck replaces his finger, nudging at your entrance. 

  “F@ck,” you breathe. 

  Your fingers flex on the door. You try to push your hips back, into him — try to push him inside you — but he stays stubbornly still. Holds you in place with that teasing, iron grip. 

  “Joel,” you moan. “P-f@ck. Please.” 

  “You’re cute when you’re jealous,” he murmurs. He rocks forward. Drags his c@ck up your slit, gathering slick. 

  “Not — ngh — jealous.” 

  “No?” His voice is low. Teasing. His accent rolls heavy off his tongue and drips to your skin. “Not even a little bit? Didn’t p@ss you off, seein’ some other woman on me?” 

  “No,” you grit. He rolls his hips, c@ck hitting your cl@t, and you whine.

  He leans forward. His chest folds against your back, big and firm and broad. He gathers your hair in his fist and tugs. 

  “Think you’re lyin’,” he says, softly. “Think it drove you crazy, pretty girl.” 

  Your stomach flutters. Your muscles clench around nothing. 

  “Think that’s why you let me touch you, front’a all those people,” he continues, and you want to smack him, kiss him, whatever it takes for him to shut up and f@ck you. You squirm against his c@ck and he leans even closer. His stubble kisses your neck. 

  It’s then — only then, in a split-second of marked clarity — that you realize where you are. Where he’s taken you. Your tunnel-vision expands long enough for you to clock the bed in your peripheral. The silver-framed photo of Alicia Simmons and her sad ex-husband, sitting on a lacquered nightstand. He could have pulled you into any bathroom. Or an empty guest room off the hall. But he’s dragged you through the last door — into the master bedroom — into her bedroom. 

  “Wanted some f@ck@n’ attention,” he growls. “’S why you’re gonna let me f@ck you in here— 

  The head of his c@ck pushes into you; just barely, and you stifle a scream. He’s stretching you already, just the tip, and you squeeze the hell out of him as he notches inside you. 

  “—next to her f@ck@n’ bed.” 

  He thrusts into you. All of him; all at once. His hips slam into your ass and you cry out, slumping into the door as he splits you in two. 

  Your eyes sting. He’s so big it’s almost — almost — painful.

  “F@ck,” you yelp. “Joel—”

  His name comes out broken. 

  He doesn’t move. He’s desperately patient; gauging your breaths and the sound of your pleas. He lets you get used to him, adjusting to his size until the burn mellows out and the stretch starts to sweeten. 

  “You’re okay, baby.” That voice, honeyed whiskey and s@x. Dark and silk-smooth. “Relax.” 

  “Please,” you whimper. “I c—ah—I can take it.” 

  “I know you can, angel.” Still waiting, patient, as you settle around him. “You’re doin’ good, pretty girl. Takin’ it so well.” 

  Your head spins at his praise. Your muscles clamp around his c@ck as he pulls out halfway, soaked in your slick, and thrusts into you again. 

  “F-uck,” you groan. “Oh my — god.” 

  You lose track of yourself after that. He finds a regular rhythm once he knows you can take it; not rough, not yet, but a far cry from gentle. He couldn’t be bothered to take his pants off — just shoved his jeans and his boxers past his hips — and denim scrapes the backs of your thighs. 

  You don’t mind. You can barely feel it. You’re too focused on him; the way he feels splitting you open, thick and hot and buried in your c@nt. 

  You must be making a lot of noise. Too much, maybe, considering he’s pounding you right now in your hostess’ bedroom, while the whole f@ck@ng neighborhood gathers downstairs. But it’s impossible to stay quiet, when he’s f@ck@ng you like this. When he sets a new, punishing pace and hits a spot that makes you scream. 

  He takes care of it. Of you. He doesn’t cover your mouth with his hand — too busy grabbing you by the waist, keeping you steady as he f@cks into you. 

  No. He reaches for his belt, instead, looped unbuckled through his jeans. He tugs it free and holds it out, between you and the door, until the leather hangs level with your mouth. 

  You don’t understand what he wants, at first. But then his hips roll into yours, and you cry out, and he shoves the belt between your teeth. 

  You bite down instinctively. The sound muffles in the leather. He drops his hand — satisfied — and returns it to your waist. 

  “’S right,” he mutters. “Good girl.” 

  He loops an arm around your front, forearm braced against your tummy. His fingers dip to rub your cl@t while he f@cks you from behind. 

  You jerk at the touch, but there’s nowhere to go. You’re wrapped up in him. Wedged between his chest and his arm, speared on his c@ck as you palm the door. 

  He’s right. You were jealous. You were jealous of that woman on his arm, touching him, laughing into his ear. Of her fingers on his hand and her head on his shoulder. 

  And he’s right, too, that you wanted his attention. That you practically begged him — in soft, unspoken terms — to slip his fingers in between your legs. The same silent way you’re begging him now, with words smothered into his belt. 

  This shouldn’t turn you on. You’re in some other woman’s room, your palms pressed to her door so hard you’ll leave prints. Her clothes are on the bed, her lipstick on the nightstand — that same garish shade she’d worn tonight, when she’d put her lips to Joel’s ear. 

  It’s twisted. It’s — beyond f@ck@d. But, then — so are you. 

  Joel gives a rough thrust and you moan into his belt. Your teeth sink in the leather. Heat builds in your core, white-hot and electric, and threatens to snap when he works on your cl@t. 

  You try to tell him you’re going to c@m. You can’t get the words out, between his belt, and the fact he’s f@ck@ng you so hard it punches your breath. 

  You manage a moan, or something close to it, muffled and desperate as your head starts to fog. 

  He gets it. He keeps his pace while you fall apart, f@ck@ng you through it, praising you with that velvet drawl. 

  “’S’good, baby,” he breathes. “Such a good girl. Knew you’d take this c@ck.” 

  Your mind goes blissfully blank when you c@m. Your teeth clamp around the belt and your tongue tastes leather. 

  He groans, hips flexing when you squeeze around his c@ck. 

  “F@ck,” he mumbles. His thrusts are frantic. Less controlled. He pulls out, panting, and stumbles back in. “F@ck, baby. S—ngh—so g@dd@mn tight for me.” 

  You’re too f@ck@d to respond. You moan weakly, trying to meet his hips as he pushes into you. Your whole head is heavy. You’re not sure you’d still be standing if Joel wasn’t currently nailing you into the door. 

  He reaches up and tears the belt from your mouth. It falls to your feet with a clink. 

  You can’t stay quiet without it. But he’s past caring, or he’s so caught up chasing his high he doesn’t give a sh@t about the neighbors anymore. He wants to hear you. 

  His movements are rough. Erratic. His hand moves between your legs, stroking your cl@t, and you’re so sensitive — too sensitive, almost — but he’s so f@ck@ng good at this you don’t think to ask him to stop. Heat pools in your core again, tugging at your stomach. 

  He’s gonna make you c@m again. A second time, in almost as many minutes. 

  “J-Joel,” you whimper, “gonna—ah—I c-can’t—” 

  “Yes you can,” he grunts. His hand fists in your hair and he moves it to the side ,exposing your neck. His mouth bends to rake your skin. “One more, baby.” 

  “F@ck, f@ck—”

  “You’re alright,” he coos. “Easy, angel. Slow. Let go.” 

  He drags it out of you. You moan into the door, pushing back against him as your muscles choke his c@ck. You hear him swear into your skin when you c@m. 

  He drags his hand from your cl@t and puts it back on your waist, holding you steady as your body sags. And then he rocks his hips up, into you — starts to f@ck you harder, faster, as his own release nears. 

  “Joel,” you whine. 

  He’s gone noticeably silent behind you. The only sounds he can manage are heavy breaths and tight, muffled grunts. 

  He’s close. 

  “C@m inside,” you mumble, breathless. “I’m—f@ck—‘m on the pill, it’s fine, I’m—” 

  His c@ck nudges at your g-spot. You lose your focus and your eyes roll back. 

  “Y’know I can’t do that, sweetheart.” He sounds pained. “Too risky.” 

  If you were any more cogent you’d say something snarky — and f@ck@ng me in the neighbor’s room isn’t? — but you’re done for. He’s ruined you. So you just make a sound — a disappointed mewl — and cry out softly when he pulls out of you. 

  He doesn’t let you turn around. One hand stays on your hip, holding you still while the other wraps around his cock. You can hear the slick slide of his fist as he jacks off behind you. He gives a low, broken moan and your stomach clenches, gasping when he yanks up your dress and spills across the small of your back. 

  “F@ck,” he mutters. His hand slips from your hip. You use the newfound freedom to turn and face him, straightening up and letting his c@m leak to your thighs. “You—f@ck.” 

  He pulls you close on an impulse. His hand comes up to grab your jaw and he kisses you, catching your sigh with his mouth. 

  He leans back with a quiet groan. His forehead brushes yours. 

  “Gonna ruin me,” he says, quietly. It’s almost…affectionate. 

  Your heart flickers. 

  He looks at you a second longer — dark eyes searching yours, searching for something , and then he reaches around you, for the door handle, and slips out before you can protest. 

  He’s back a minute later, two towels in hand. One for him, to soak up whatever rain remains in his flannel — and a smaller, softer cloth for you. 

  You reach your hand out for it — I’ll take that — but he doesn’t give it up. He bends slowly, sinking to his knees, and drags the cloth between your legs. 

  You put a hand in his hair to steady yourself. Spread your legs a little as he moves the cloth up your thigh. Something about this — about Joel Miller on his knees, hair tousled, staring up at you while he cleans his own mess — 

  You could probably c@m again, if he’d touch you. 

  But he doesn’t. He’s excruciatingly gentle, cleaning every drop of himself from your legs. When he’s done he just stands, and kisses your forehead, and leads you out of the room with his hand on your back. Down the hall, and back down the stairs, and into the den to re-join the party. 

  You slip in just in time for closing credits. You find individual spots on separate ends of the room, perched on the edge of two couches. By the time Alicia hits the lights, there’s nothing to suggest you’d even left. 

  Except for the picture-perfect imprint of your teeth on his belt, when he stands to shake your dad’s hand goodbye. 

  
  

    
      
        
        
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