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Assistant: Title: Fourth of July
        Author: jrrmint jrrmint 
        Chapter: 5/14 
        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 5: à la carte
    

    

        
          
          
            
   “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.” 

          
        

      
        
          we're back (with angst)
            
            (See the end of the chapter for  more notes.)
            
      
  

  
  
    
    
  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 f@ck@ng…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 f@ck@ng impossible to think about anything else. 

  You make it five pages into your first book — some sh@tty 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 f@ck@ng…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. F@ck@ng…smug. Your fingers tighten on the phone, squeezing the frame, and you just — ugh. Ugh. 

  
    You: 
    i’ll manage 
  

  Joel: We’ll see. 

  “D@ck,” 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 f@ck 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 d@mned 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 f@ck? — 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, c@cky 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 c@cks 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 f@cks 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 cl@t 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.” 

  
    F@ck. 
  

  You’re gonna f@ck@ng — 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. F@ck@ng. 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 f@ck 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 c@ck. 

  “You’re on thin f@ck@n’ ice,” he growls. 

  You try not to smile. He’s not blushing — not yet, at least — but he’s fl@stered. 

  “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—f@ck@n’—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 c@ck, 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 c@ck as he ruts into your palm. 

  “This what you want?” he mutters. His c@ck throbs in your hand. “Dirty f@ck@n’ 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 f@ck@d 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 d@ck 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 p@ss@d. 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 p@ss@d. 

  “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 f@ck@n’ 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—f@ck—” 

  “Think it’s funny?” he murmurs. “Teasin’ me under the table?” He rolls his hips into yours and you gasp. 

  “F@ck@n’—filthy,” he grits. “Touchin’ me in front of your daddy. You need it that bad, pretty girl? You that f@ck@n’ 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 c@ck. 

  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 f@ck@n’ 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 f@ck@d. 

  He swipes the spit from your chin with his thumb. You look up at him, panting softly. 

  “God d@mn, baby.” 

  Your heart thrums at your chest. You whine a little, snaking your hand down to palm at his c@ck. 

  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.

  “F@ck,” 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 c@nt. 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, f@ck@ng into you with thick fingers. Your c@nt 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 c@m 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 c@m, 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, c@ck 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 f@ck@n’—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 f@ck@d 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 f@cks 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 c@ck 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 c@m?” 

  
    Yes. 
  

  You try to nod — yes, please, f@ck — but his grip on your neck makes it impossible. 

  “‘F I let you,” he says, “you gonna pull that sh@t 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—f@ck. 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 c@m. 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 f@cks 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 c@ck 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 c@ck. 

  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. 

  “F@ck,” he breathes, “yeah, baby. Like that. Don’t—ah—god—don’t st—” 

  His hips rut, stuttering into your mouth as he c@ms 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—f@ck.” He rakes a hand through his stubble. “This is so f@ck@n’ stupid.” 

  Your pulse thrums. Your brow furrows as you try to read his face — is he joking? Is he f@ck@ng serious? 

  “No one knows,” you say, slowly. 

  “And how long ’til someone finds out?” He shakes his head. “You keep f@ck@n’—sh@t. 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.” 

  “F@ck—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 f@ck@ng me in the kitchen? Or was this not a convenient conversation to have while you were getting your d@ck sucked?” 

  “Jesus, f@ck@n’—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 f@ck 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. 

  “F@ck you,” you say, quietly. “F@ck 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 — f@ck@ng — 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. 

  
  

    
      
        
        
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